


Blue Lips

by BiverbalBuncombe, IridulcentDays (BiverbalBuncombe)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Car Accidents, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/BiverbalBuncombe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/IridulcentDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America gets into a car accident. A bad one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this story has been rewritten since its original posting. If you want to read the original, it is still found on the LiveJournal kinkmeme site. Originally written under the pseudonym Quoth-the-Pigeon.
> 
> This story has been translated into Russian by Sonyr on Ficbook, [check it out here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5685770) Thank you so much!

America swore as he tried to calm his accelerated breathing, hand clenched tightly around the smooth leather of the steering wheel. He fixed his glasses, taking a slow breath to even his racing heart. The windshield wipers beat off snow rhythmically. America glanced at the clock. 10:48. A gale of wind seemed to seep through the cracks of the car and the cold hands of winter deftly grabbed hold of him. He shivered and put the car into park. “I thought I was about to flip…” he said to himself.

America stepped out of the car, instantly assaulted by the large puffs of snow quickly plummeting out of the sky. He pulled on his jacket that had been sitting in the passenger seat and shut the door. He slipped into the sleeves quickly and assessed the damage. “Fuck winter,” he muttered and stowed his hands in his pocket, looking at what the damage was. 

He had slid off the road after hitting a patch of black ice on the hill. He spun, and had crashed into a snow bank after a terrifying moment. The front left tire was twisted out while the right one remained straight. The rental car was scratched where he had grazed the beginning of the car rail. He resisted the urge to kick it. That would only be another dent. He looked up, wiping away the snow that had melted on his face.

Why the hell had hey decided to have a meeting in Russia in March? Sure, it was a Spring month in theory, but they should have known. America looked up the road, and watched a lone car inch down the hill. The snow looked amber in the distant headlights. So much for trying to be nice, he groused to himself. America had had time to kill, and had driven around town for a bit after checking into the hotel. He had gone shopping and then went to eat dinner, and when he came back outside it had become a snowy nightmare.

Cheeks feeling numb and raw, he slid back into the car. He stared at the dashboard, and put the hazard lights on. He chewed on his lip, thinking of what to do. The car that had been descending the hill slid, and he watched it sight itself in the rearview mirror. America turned up the heat and pulled out his cell, dialing the number the rental service had left for roadside assistance. He had to wait a minute for someone who could speak English and explained his situation. The response was not what he had hopped to hear. It would be three hours before a tow truck could come by and help.

When he hung up, America leaned back in the seat. “Of course. Just my luck,” he muttered. He turned on the hazard lights and began to putz around with his phone. Now, America knew how to drive in the snow, and he could only chalk it up to bad luck that he was now stranded in the middle of a snowstorm at night with what he suspected was a broken tire rod. It hadn’t been supposed to snow, had it? Either way, he was fucked. He sighed, and dialed the phone. God, he hated talking on the phone. It was always so awkward.

Russia was so not going to be happy.

The phone rang three times before he heard a groggy, “ _Allo_?” as Russia answered.

“Uh, hey Russia, long time no…talk,” _God fucking damn it talk like a normal person_! Alfred cleared his throat and laughed nervously. “I know it’s snowing, but I got a bit of a favor to ask.”

“America?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s me. Hi.”

“It…” here he could hear the muffled movement of sheets and a drawn out sigh. “It is 11 at night. What could you possibly want to talk about that cannot wait for three days until the conference?”

“I’m stuck in the snow. Crashed the car, actually.” America was looking at the buttons of the console, upping the heat once again as the car sat and idled.

There was a pause. “Then call a tow truck?” Russia murmured.

“Well I did, but it’s not coming for three hours, maybe more.”

When there was another pause America hit the passenger seat in realization. “Oh, shit, yeah. Did I mention I’m like 5 miles from your house right now?” _Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

“Ah. That makes more sense.”

“Look, I know you’re asleep, and you hate me, but–“

“I do not hate you,” Russia cut in.

“Oh. Um, right. Annoyed by?”

“Yes.”

_Great. Glad we sorted that out,_ America thought. “Can I call in a favor and ask for you to pick me up?” He began to click and un-click his seatbelt with nervous energy.

He was expecting the other nation to at least tease him on how terrible he must be at driving and other things, but he simply got a groggy “Where are you?”

America looked up at the exit sign and gave his location. On the other side of the line he could hear movement. “Do not move, I will come get you.”

“Thank you,” America said. “Be careful, it’s really bad out here. I don’t think the roads were sprayed or salted yet.”

“Do not do anything stupid. I will be right there. You are lucky I am close.”

And then Russia hung up. America frowned at his phone and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him. Don’t do anything stupid? Come on, who did he think he was?

America rubbed his hands together and tried not to think about the violet-eyed man coming to get him. He continued to click and un-click his seatbelt

Frowning, he rolled the knob for the radio between his fingers as he tried to blindly find some sort of music station that might sound good, he missed the flash of light from his rear view mirror as a truck crested the hill. It hit the black ice and began to swerve.

When America finally looked up and caught movement in his mirror, hearing a horn blare nearby, it was that of red semi truck careening down the hill sideways. Barreling straight towards him on its deadly path.

The two vehicles struck.


	2. Chapter Two

Russia peered though his windshield, watching whorls of snowfall in the stark beam of his headlights, taking a sip of tea to stave off the cold. It seemed to seep through the seams of the car, nipping at what little skin that was uncovered. Russia tapped his finger against the leather steering wheel, and hummed slowly as he came to a bend in the road. He slowed down, reluctant to tap his brakes. It was a bad night, and every sane person was wrapped up in doubled blankets and sound asleep. Twin amber lights pinpricked the inky night further down the road. They crested the small hill and he could see the mounds of snowdrift piled on the side of the road.

He glanced down as his phone buzzed twice in the passenger seat to remind him of another voicemail that he had not listened to yet. Briefly the car was illuminated the phone’s blue light. 11:27. Russia’s lips pinched into a frown, and took another sip of his tea, thinking of the American who had left the message.

It was late! Too late to be marauding around! And in an unfamiliar area. And in the middle of a storm! Russia thought and added this to his list of growing complaints. Annoying laugh, cocky attitude… He shoved the stainless steel mug of hot tea down into the cup holder as his car pitched to the right, loosing traction on a patch of ice. The car slid, nearing the barrier, then straightened as he slowly coaxed it back. 

He flexed his fingers. He hated driving in snow. His heart pounded painfully. He was fine in driving during the worst of winter storms, but he still loathed the intrinsic panic felt when the car as out of control. Russia wanted to go back to bed, but America had called, unabashedly asking for help when his car became stuck in a snow bank. He should have said no. He should have stayed asleep under the wool and down blankets and ignored the call that had chirped from his cell phone.

Russia still wasn’t sure why he was out here. He thought about the call, how America had explained he was stuck in a snow– his voice wavering with either excitement or cold. Russia could almost see his bright blue eyes crinkling with the nervous laughter that had started their conversation. Maybe that was what had somehow stoked the will to leave his cozy nest of blankets and lumber into the winter storm.

And what a storm this had become. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to have a job where you could be completely wrong and still come into work with a smile, Russia groused. The meteorologists had said there would be clouds, maybe a patch of sleet here or there, but otherwise just bitterly cold. Now it was bitterly cold with nearly 13 cm of snow quickly piling up.

In the distance, red and blue lights darted between the thin trees that lined the road. The road dipped down the hill there and bended around the corner. Russia moved gingerly into the next lane, wanting to avoid what was surely an accident in the distance. It was dangerous driving in quickly building storms like these. The roads were not yet salted, and nearly every road had one driver who couldn’t handle the ice and crashed their car into a barrier. Maybe it was a surprise there weren’t more. Russia was nearly at the exit America had described, looking for the white Ford Explorer he had rented. He slowed. Wherever America was, he had quite the show as he waited for Russia to arrive. A large truck must have collided into the guardrails. Fire gallivanted to the black sky, sending plumes of smoke high. Fire trucks were attempting to put out the blaze with several hoses attacking the fierce flames. The hull of the truck was already a blackened skeleton for the most part. The front end bent into the grass that dipped down to the small stream below. Shards of plastic and glass were skewed across the road like children’s toys.

The twisted and blazing carnage of the truck clearly illuminated the dark road, and Russia looked up at the exit sign, matching it to the one America has clearly explained he would be sitting under. With the wreckage of the truck so close, America must have moved further down the road. Well, at least it must have entertained him while he waited. No. That was wrong. America would have darted headfirst to help. There was no way the brash American could have just sit and watched. Russia inched by, careful to make room for the assembly of trucks and personnel. He was safely past and in the shadow of the fire when he noticed there was no car sitting on the shoulder as he hoped. He stopped on the shoulder and looked back at the flashing lights. America’s car would have been here if he was helping with the crash. And there was no way he couldn’t be helping either, what with his propensity towards being the hero.

Russia turned off his car. Silence unsettlingly permeated the cabin, dichotomous with the chaos outside. Blue, red, and yellow lights of the emergency trucks shoved everything into deep contrast, dyeing emergency personnel as they scurried about in thick clothes to control the blaze. Where was that idiot? The cold began to seep into the car, and Russia pulled his coat snugger to his frame. He kept his eyes trained on the scene behind him through the mirror, only glancing away to see if another car was near. Wasn’t this where he said he would be? Russia thought of the unanswered voicemail, and frowned.

He pulled his gloves off with his teeth, deftly going through the phone until he reached the message.

Silence. Static. Then,

_End of Message._

Russia put the phone away and his gloves back on. A misdial perhaps? A blur of black and yellow caught the Russian’s eyes. He watched two firefighters yell and point to the ditch below. They pointed past where the guardrail lay mangled and dangling, where the shadows blanketed everything in the dip. A lick of blaze showed a scattered graveyard of car parts.

He left the car. He still expected to see America’s blond hair bobbing in the crowd…but– what if…

Listening to the flames crackle and the shouts of men, Russia watched as the men slid near to a mangled wreckage of a car. The gashed silver belly of the car was quickly collecting snow, one of the tires facing out. The front was a twisted cage of metal, like crumpled paper. The nose delved deep into the creek bed. I. The car was buried deep in the shadow of the road, and Russia could not say for certain that it was a white car. In it’s state he couldn’t even guess the make. He couldn’t say it was a Ford. He could say anyone in there should be dead. America and he might not always get along, but even he didn’t want to see him lying in the twisted wreck. At least not now.

He needed to see.

Russia was near the top of the hill now, watching as they cut apart the car, trying to reach whoever was inside. Someone came up to him, words muffled by all the noise and wind around them.

“You can’t be here! Please get back to your car.”

Russia kept his eyes on the car. Were they pulling someone out now? “I cannot.”

“Sir! Get-“

“That is my friend down there and I am not going anywhere.” Russia, looked at the man squarely. The man stopped, took a step back, and nodded. He seemed to hesitate, then went back towards the truck wreckage.

Russia looked back to the wreck below, walking gingerly towards the car and the other responders. They were pulling someone out now. He got closer. Someone finally turned more lights onto the wreckage, illuminating the grisly scene. Russia walked closer.

Blond hair was matted with deep red blood. The glass must have cut his face, as the right side of it was glossed in red. America. He got closer, swearing steadily under his breath. America’s lips were blue. His neck and exposed hand already mottled purple. Wet clothes and a ripped coat hid the rest of the injuries from view. Russia could guess that his arm and leg were broken from the nearly unnatural angle they laid in. He was glad the other nation was unconscious. It would be excruciating pain when he awoke. Russia had the sudden need to feel his heartbeat, which he shook away quickly.

Well he wasn’t wrong. America had been participating in the crash. Just not as the hero, this time.

He could see the paramedics arriving, taking over the situation. The wind howled. It cut deep to the bones. 

He pulled a medic aside by the arm firmly. “That’s my brother,” he lied. “Alfred Jones. I am riding with you in that ambulance.”


	3. Chapter Three

America felt groggy. Everything was numb and useless. His mouth tasted like copper while feeling like sand and it was like his head had been ripped off and hastily thrown back on backwards. Nothing was right. _What-?_ The nebulous question ghosted at the edge of his mind, unable to form coherently. His head hurt. He hurt. Hurt. Shades of sound spilled in the air rhythmically and without meaning. A staccato scream beat in the inside of his head building pressure. Again the question fluttered by, resting on his tongue. With a low groan, one that barely left his throat, America attempted to rub at his eyes to relieve the growing dull pressure. It was then though that he realized he couldn’t move. It wasn’t a scream. That was beeping. What was beeping? Coherent thoughts began to swarm. His lips quivered in a phantom movement with the inability to express his pain.

Ah. At least he was warm. It was like drowning, this pain, in this darkness. But at least he was warm. He wished he could grasp something. Strike out. Stop this pain. _Everything was numb and useless_. There was buzzing in his ears. The shades of sound again. What was that? America sighed. The phantom question again. _What? What happened._ Then: a deep slow breath. NO. Pain. Dull but sharp. There was something near him. There were two distinct smells, crossing over each other gently and elusively. 

Something with snow. White. Cold. He remembered it being white…or had it been really dark? Connections formed slowly. The bitterness was blood. Why was there blood in his mouth? The sounds began again.

“…..Can’t……..–rphine should be……” there was a beeping–and then a whispered, “…won’t…” 

Someone was speaking America realized nebulously. _It sounds like a woman._ The thought was clear, grounding him in his haze. Where was he? The darkness swooped back. Useless. It smelled like clean snow. That was one of the scents hovering over him. Damn that beeping!

He had been sitting in his car. 

The car!

Snow. The car. It was night. **Beeping.** Damn that fucking beeping. Those sounds- No, they were voices. Hadn’t he been alone? Astringent air. That was the second scent. It coated everything. Blood. A car. Snow. Night. Painpainpain.

The car…he had been waiting in the car….

Something smelled of smoke. Had there been fire? His hand was warm with pressure. Shouldn’t he move? Ah. The car…had… Everything felt like a dream.

He had been sitting in the car because he had crashed it into the guardrail.

Help. Help had been coming. Voices continued. Couldn’t they stop the beeping?

_Useless. Numb. Pain._

Copper blood. Drops on his tongue. Coating his throat. Vague awareness. Floral? Smoke and flowers. America felt like his breath was becoming shorter and quicker. The car had smelled like new leather, which was comforting because it reminded the blue-eyed man of gloves.

Violet eyes were often in dreams… 

Russia! 

Thoughts clicked. Snapped together like puzzle pieces. He had been waiting for Russia to pick him up because that stupid car had crashed. Snow. Ice. Night.

He hadn’t been hurt. Not then. America remembered playing with the radio.

Now what was that floral scent? Hyacinth? No…too pronounced. This was subtle. Maybe carnations. Daffodils…no– that wasn’t right. He had been waiting for Russia…someone should stop that beeping

Why couldn’t he feel? Fuck. What had happened?

Russia had never come, had he? 

No. There was something else. Something big. Blood tasted funny when you had a dry mouth, America finally decided. 

“….Wake……ease……………-ry….please.” 

That was a man’s voice. One was a woman who was muttering. The other was the steady pulsing of a man’s deeper voice. His arm was starting to tingle; unpleasant like a limb that had fallen asleep. Useless.

And…

Oh!

Oh.

_**Fuck.**_

America remembered with a burst of clarity– as though someone had shot the memory into his veins like a stimulating drug. Fuck. He had been hit by a truck. A truck! _The_ truck that had crested the hill and slipped down until he had been slammed into the guardrail and sent him careening into the ditch below. 

The pain. It hurt to think. There had been cuts from the glass shattering when the metal screamed on impact from the red truck. The snap of his arm when he was flung strangely to the side, being for once unlucky and not wearing his seatbelt. Flung to the roof of the car as it flipped onto the pavement, up again and into the air. Neck whipping back and chest hitting something– everything had looked like the whirlwinds of hell– and he remembered thinking how pretty everything looked with the soft snow. Crash. The car fell on its roof and his leg had vaporized– surely that was the only thing that could cause such pain and he had died. He was dead, right? No? Yes? 

Then what had happened? He couldn’t have been in the car. Voices, again. There were sounds he didn’t know. Was someone holding his hand? Oh…he could feel again. Bad Bad Bad Bad. He didn’t want to feel. It hurt. Fuck. Blue eyes opened in hazy slits, blinded by the lights above. Something was moving beside him, but all he saw was hazy soporific shadows ghosting frantically by his peripherals. 

Shit. America wanted to mutter something, but all that came out from his parted lips was the quickening of his breath. The pain faded and receded again. Pulled in and out like the waves of a grim ocean. He could feel pressure– and the pressure on his hand was doubling slowly. He focused his eyes to the other side of the hazy room, realizing with a quirk of his lips that his glasses here gone. The warmth that lay over him was comforting in the unknown white world. 

“Alfred?” 

America’s thoughts stopped. The male voice, his mind answered. He shifted his gaze further towards where his hand was. He squinted, trying to bring the picture to focus. He hissed as it brought the headache again. Blue eyes rolled back towards what looked like a…a…man? Maybe? He couldn’t see anything without those glasses. Russia? 

“…ia?” he croaked out softly, mouth feeling like he had fallen headfirst into a pile of sand. 

“ _Da_.” The blob shifted, wavering in his vision like a mirage. 

So it was Russia. Shutting his eyes against the light and lack of vision, America took in a soft breath. Not deep. He didn’t want the pain. Silence would have filled the room but the rhythmic beat of some machinery destroyed it. Hm. So Russia was sitting at his bedside and holding his hand. 

Wait. 

What? 

 

“Why ‘ere?” America huffed finally, licking his lips as he kept his eyes shut. There was a creak of something that could have been a chair or the mattress. 

“You were in an accident. You remember?” 

The blue-eyed nation simply hummed quietly. Silence blanketed them both and America wondered what he was doing. Honestly, if he were in an accident he would expect England or Canada to be there by his bedside, not Russia. Especially not Russia holding his hand.

Not that he was complaining though. 

“The nurse said you would awake quicker if you had contact,” Russia said finally, his voice low and poignantly human contrasting against the sterile smells. Sometimes America had to wonder if he could read his thoughts. 

“You have been out for a day. The crash was quite something.” 

Despite the pain America ground out, “…Diver okay?” 

“ _Nyet_. He is dead.” And suddenly there was a bout of laughter that forced America to open his eyes and look blearily at the Russian sitting next to him. He could faintly see the smile on his lips. “Only you would ask if the driver is alright before knowing how you are.” 

“No.” And that was all he muttered as protest. 

America then licked his cracked lips, but said nothing for once. It was too tiring to talk and it made his throat burn. He caught the scent of the smoke and flowers again, and let it fill his senses. The scent was calming and it helped him even his breathing after a minute or so. Finally, he heard the creak of a chair as he slackened his face and began to drift off again. 

“I’ll keep watch, little America.” 

But that could have been America dreaming.


	4. Chapter Four

“Alright, ice cream!” America called out, sitting up abruptly. Then, “Son of a- Fuck!” He collapsed back into the hospital bed, with a groan. Awakening from his dream had led to forgetting, for a moment, that he should not be moving. He shut his eyes against the brightly lit room and placed a lightly bandaged hand across his face gingerly. He peaked out between his fingers, feeling a headache coming on, and surveyed the scene in front of him. “Were you pointing a gun at me?” He said with a wry grin.

A blurry vision of Russia was standing near the end of the hospital bed tucking something back under the folds of an open coat. His cheeks reddened. Violet eyes flickered swiftly away and to the rest of the small hospital room. “You startled me out of my sleep.” Russia’s gaze returned and settled back on America with a stoic gaze. “You should not be moving yet.”

“Yeah, I got that. Thanks,” America croaked and pulled his hand away with a pained sigh. God, his throat was dry. And everything was fuzzy without his glasses on. It was giving him a headache. His back throbbed angrily and his breath hitched as wounded muscles tensed. America shut his eyes again as he settled back on the bed. He opened his eyes again as the throbbing died down looking up at Russia. “What time is it?”

“Bloody two in the morning, you gluttonous idiot,” came England’s voice from the corner.

America sat up a little straighter, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. Russia moved, allowing America to finally see England who was sitting in a visitor’s chair, tiredly rubbing at his eyes. America smiled. “When did you get here Artie?”

England frowned at the nickname. “Don’t call me…” Emerald eyes met America’s. America watched England’s prickly demeanor wilt and die. Then he huffed and crossed his arms, looking away. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Thanks.” America looked down to his bandaged arm and then to the IV jutting from the crook of his elbow. He followed the line with his eyes, tracing the tubing up to the hanging bag and back down to his skin. He turned away, suddenly feeling tired. Blue eyes watched Russia, who was now seated in a chair across the room, in silence for a moment. “How come you’re still here?”

“Your jaw has healed well it seems,” Russia replied, evading the question with a smile.

“It was only sprained, wasn’t it?” England’s question came out mumbled as he settled into the chair, pulling his coat around his knees as a makeshift blanket.

“I dunno,” America said quietly. He had only awoken twice before today. Once, when Russia was the only one in the room and he was mostly delirious, and the second when a nurse had been checking in on him during the five minutes he had stayed awake. Russia had been there as well, acting as a translator. America didn’t remember much of that either. He still felt just as tired and sore, America realized. There was also that underlying numbness hitting his limbs. It was a gentle reminder that he was still under the care of painkillers. Craning his neck, America gazed at the fuzzy room, _exhaustion setting in again_ , he thought to himself. He squinted to look at his leg, which he couldn’t fully feel. “So what’s wrong with my leg?”

America listed to the creak of wood and Russia shifted in his seat. “It is shattered. You will require operations even with the healing speed of our kind.”

“Great,” America groaned. “Surgery. In a Russian hospital. My leg will come back three inches shorter.”

“You would be in a lot worse condition if it were not for this Russian hospital,” Russia replied with an icy smile.

“Still got my arms and legs, so that’s fair, “ America conceded. He tried to move his shoulder but winced at the twinge of pain that came with it. Russia’s smile stayed in place, but it was more relaxed.

America turned to England. “ So how long have you been here?”

England glanced at Russia and returned his gaze to America. “Since I arrived. Russia let me know the morning after. I came straight here after I landed.” He shifted his coat and pulled it up closer. “Your brother and France have stopped by as well, but you were asleep.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” America leaned fully into the support of the pillows behind him and shut his summer blue eyes. Another sigh fell from his lips, weak and pained from the injuries of his body. The room fell into silence and America’s breathing began to slow. He didn’t even have the energy to keep up a peppy conversation.

Apparently though, the other two men thought he had fallen asleep for their tones became hushed. “You insult him very much,” Russia muttered somewhat gruffly, America decided nebulously as he became more and more drowsy

There was a hurt sniff. “I’m simply worried for the daft thing. In all my years I’ve never seen him be so still– even when he was a child he would be kicking or flailing in his dreams. It was like he was a shark entangled in sheets” There was a pause that held too much weight for England cleared his throat. “You never told him why you were still here, and to be honest, I am curious too.”

“I merely wish to make sure he gets better. It would not bode well for a notorious rival to suddenly die in my lands, da?”

A hum carried softly through the room, trailing into a quiet song, and suddenly America was not lying in a sterile Russian hospital room, but back in his Virginia home as a child– laid up from the flu. He could almost remember that old place…and the familiar scent from before filled his senses as there was a creak of a chair. The warm musk of fur, the subtle floral of sunflowers, the crispness of clean and cold snow and the smoky wafer of fire. It brought a sense of calmness and security deep down to the center of his body and America stopped clenching the white linen of the hospital bed, as he had been doing since he had woken up.

In. Out. In. Out. You’ll be fine, America told himself internally with a thumb’s up. And then he fell into a lightly troubled sleep.

— — —

When America woke again, it was back to the fuzzy world that was so dichotomous to the stark clarity of his dreams. He blinked seeing the room empty and back to its full brightness. America then turned to glare at the machines by his bedside and the wires connected to his skin and flesh. Oh, God that beeping was going to drive him insane. Maybe that was Russia’s plot…. With a roll of his eyes, America scratched his nose and began to look up at the ceiling again, trying to count the amount of tiles to bring his mind out of the grogginess of the medication.

When he had gotten to sixteen tiles for the thirtieth time, a shadowy mass filled the corner of his eyes and America tilted his head to look blearily at the door.

“You are awake.”

“Ah. It’s you again.” America waved his better hand lethargically. “Hey there, big guy.”

The sounds of heavy footsteps caught his ears, and suddenly a cold leather hand caught America’s better hand. The touch was gentle, but sturdy. America looked up to Russia who turned his palm and placed a pair of glasses. “These are yours, _da_? Canada gave them to me this afternoon. He was asked to look through the recovered items from the car.” Russia stepped away and America’s hand curled around the glasses possessively. “One of the lenses was shattered. He had it repaired.”

America’s throat tightened and he smiled at the glasses in his hand. “Texas! I thought they would’ve been crushed in the crash." He shakily unfolded them and slid them up onto the bridge of his nose, fumbling when one of the tips refused to sit behind his ear as he steered them with one hand. Russia leaned over and corrected them, for some reason making America’s face become a little warm. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“You are welcome. Better?”

Blinking, the world came back into crisp clarity for the first time since the crash. A genuine smile tugged at America’s lips and he nodded. “Yeah. Damn, I missed these.” He traced a finger against the frame of the glasses. He let his tired arm fall finally back to the bed. A flash of white and a crinkle of paper caught the American’s attention. He looked to the folded newspaper in Russia’s hand and nodded towards it. “Can I see that?”

“It is in Russian.”

“That’s alright.”

The large northern nation gazed down at America steadily while relinquishing the paper. America gave a half grin in thanks before unrolling the paper and quickly scanning the headlines. His lips quirked to a frown as he continued to read. While the injured man was doing so, Russia quietly pulled off his coat and hung it up in the corner of the room, then moved to sit silently by the bed with a few documents to read over. He looked though patches of his silvery blonde hair when America stopped reading and looked up at Russia.

“American diplomat nearly killed by truck driver?” America asked.

Russia glanced at the newspaper and then back to America’s slightly dull blue eyes. “I did not know you could read my language. You certainly cannot speak it.”

America gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Reading is easier. Besides, how else could I tell what was a grocery list and what was something more interesting from back in the day.” America looked back down at the paper, missing the annoyed look on Russia’s face. “The car was burning?”

Russia shook his head. “No, the truck was. Your car rolled down a hill and into a creek bed.”

“Oh.” America fell silent, peering into the contemplative violet eyes across from him. Russia waited in the silence and watched while America furrowed his brows together sharply. Russia turned back to his papers. “Thank you.”

Russia looked back up, but America was looking at the tiles on the ceiling, avoiding eye contact. When Russia didn’t say anything, America looked away from the ceiling and finally met Russia’s gaze. Violet eyes met dull medicated blue. “You are welcome, little America.”

America just gave a small smile. From there they fell into a respectful silence, the only sounds from the machinery hooked up to America and the crackle of papers as Russia worked. America finally became bored and continued to read the paper, ignoring the headache it brought on, and read until the paper was through. He put it down finally with a huff and watched Russia read instead. Apparently he could feel America’s gaze on him, as he looked up with a frown. America said nothing but shrugged. He was bored and had nothing to do.

Russia put the documents down and turned to the younger nation. “Why do you call your glasses Texas?”

“Huh?” America asked eloquently and blinked. “Why?”

“Yes, why.”

“Oh, um…” America pushed Texas slightly higher on his nose. “Well let’s see…I was kind of friends when ol’ Tex was around…especially when he gained his independence and became his own republic.” America fiddled with the paper in his hand rolling it and folding the thin pieces. “Though, I really couldn’t do much politically…and Mexico…Anyway, poor scrawny kid didn’t have a chance. So when I eventually took control of his lands as one of my states, I kept his glasses to remember the kid by.” America again touched the frames, looking a bit troubled at his history and then tapped his fingers on his lap. “So, yeah. That’s why. The glasses were Tex’s.”

“…So when he became one with you, you took his glasses?”

“Yeah, when he– wait! No. He did not become one with me. It wasn’t like that.” America waved his good arm in protest.

“Ah. But it sounds like you had him become one with you.” Russia said slightly childishly, chuckling when the American began to pout. He finally patted the bed, too wary of the nation’s broken legs to do anything else. “Da. I see.”

“Hmph.”


	5. Chapter Five

Russia sat in the meeting, looking over the black pen in his hands and viewed the nations before him. The meeting was quiet right now, a lull in any action thanks to the report on wood milling which Lithuania was giving. Lithuania looked up, pausing and stuttered when he noticed Russia looking towards him. Russia simply smiled, although that seemed to fluster Lithuania more.Russia continued to roll the pen between his fingers, not really paying any attention. He glanced up to the clock near the podium, lips quirking down at seeing how slowly the time was passing. 

Russia didn’t want to be here sitting through the meeting, but as the host it was a requirement. And so Russia sat glowering at the clock and sometimes the slower speakers while his mind strayed to the empty chair at the table. America was in the middle of his first surgery and the world was anxious to see what the outcome would be. A flicker of movement caught his eye and Russia turned to see Canada discreetly checking his phone, a frown on the younger nation’s face as he returned the cell to his suit pocket. Canada looked to Russia, somehow knowing that the larger nation was looking his way and gave a terse smile before returning his attention to Lithuania. 

The Russian began to tap his fingers along the pen, trying to take out his agitation on the little writing tool rather then the people sitting around him. A few seats away he noticed Ukraine’s stern stare, and put the pen down on the table. She gave him a sweet smile and turned her attention back to the meeting. Russia’s thoughts returned to the American instead, no matter how often he tried to brush it away. He had seen the younger man only a few hours ago and his mind kept replaying their meeting incessantly. 

_America was propped up, looking pale in the white bed as he skimmed over a few documents in his lap. Next to him, the IV dripped steadily. Blue eyes glanced up over the rim of smudged glasses, a bleary and unsteady gaze at seeing Russia standing in the room next to a doctor._

_“Hey? What’s up?” America asked, flipping the papers over with his good arm and tilting his head up. Russia’s lips quirked down, wondering if the nation realized how quiet and tired he sounded. Probably not, the American most likely thought he was at full volume. A part of Russia wondered if he was._

_“Good morning Alfred. This is Dr. Lipinski. He is the one who will be in charge of the operation for your leg.” Russia pointed to the aged man standing silently next to him._

_“We met earlier,” America confirmed with a nod. “The embassy sent a representative to discuss treatment options. Samantha said she’d let me know what they’d’ve settled on.”_

_Russia thought of the mouse brown haired woman with brilliant cat green eyes that had been constantly in and out of America’s room the past few days. “They decided on a series of four surgeries.”_

_“Surgeries?” America’s eyes flickered to the doctor and back to Russia’s unblinking stare. “I thought I already went through one.”_

_“You did, but that was so your leg would not be amputated.” Russia adjusted his scarf and then folded his arms. “This is so your leg may heal properly.”_

_America frowned, bending his head forwards and wincing a little. He seemed deep in thought when he asked, “Why four?”_

_Russia turned to the doctor and repeated the question in Russian, watching the gray haired man become very serious looking. The next ten minutes were spent with Russia translating the conversation so America would know what would happen to him and just what would be cut here or built there. Towards the end when the American asked a thoughtful question about just what exactly was wrong with his thigh and why that required it’s own surgery, the doctor began to spew a seemingly endless amount of medical jargon. Russia rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache come on. What was the English word for that?_

_“What did he say?” America asked._

_“Ah…something…never mind. Your ankle is shredded and your leg is broken.” Russia paused to think of an example. “Like a bag of marbles, da?”_

_“Ew. Okay.” America looked down at his hands. “Sounds like I’m lucky it wasn’t ripped off from the crash._

_Russia was silent._

_“So they can’t insert pins in and that’s what’s going to cause the problems. ”America’s blue eyes and voice were not accusing, just worried._

_Ah yes. Russia knew that would be a problem. Foreign objects in a nations body would be rejected immediately. It was why they could heal quickly from bullet wounds. But for something like this, their healing ability became a problem._

_Dr. Lipinski, knowing there were no more questions excused himself from the room. Russia agreed and the doctor left, leaving a bewildered and worried America behind._

_“ You will not be under for the procedure. It will be a local anesthetic. They do not want to place more stress on your heart.” Because it might be too much, the Russian thought, but kept quiet._

_America nodded and waved his hand. “Yeah. Sure. Samantha said something like that yesterday. Whatever it takes. I would like to walk sometime soon again.” He placed the papers onto the table next to him and folded his hands awkwardly, finally ending up resting his good hand over the cast of his broken arm. “So how many days has the meeting been going on?”_

_“Three. You have not missed much. France and England got into a fight.”_

_“Yeah, but they always do that. So where am I, anyway? In the middle of the puckerbrush?”_

_“ The what?” Russia glanced down at the hospital gown clad man._

_“Uh, Puckerbrush, the middle of nowhere.”_

_“Nyet…we are in Moscow. Are you having memory loss?”_

_“Nah. Just don’t think anyone actually ever confirmed to me where I was…..what are you doing?” America was quizzically staring at the other nation, looking like he wanted to push him away._

_“I am checking to see if you have a temperature. That is all. Perhaps fever has confused your mind.”_

_“Dude. I’m in a hospital.” He gave a smile and pulled away. “I think they’d know if something was up.” He looked to the clock and puffed his cheeks gently. “You should be headdin’ out, big guy. You wouldn’t wanna be late ‘er nuthin. Someone might get th’ idear yer worried ‘bout me, eh?”_

_“You are doing that on purpose.”_

_“Heh. Yeah. Drives England bat shit crazy.” America gave a cheeky grin and then waved his fingers. “Shoo. Go on. Go manage that meeting. I’ll be fine here.”_

_Russia paused, running his fingers through his hair before folding his arms. He looked away to the door. “I will visit you later after the surgery to make sure you are not dead.” He then turned away, walking out the door to hear America’s low chuckle._

_“Yeah, yeah.”_

But that had been hours ago and Russia was anxious to end the meeting and see how well the operation had gone. There hadn’t been enough time to check a third time with the doctors, but he had enough trust that America would at least be alive and with both legs. America had embassy representatives there to translate and help if anything went astray, and Russia had a feeling Samantha was watching over America's care hawkishly. Egypt was taking Lithuania’s place, talking about the black market antiquities issue and how he was dealing with it. Russia watched as both England and Canada checked the time, unknowing that they were doing so simultaneously. It brought a silent chuckle to his lips and Russia hummed, looking for where China sat. Maybe the elder nation would know something to help Alfred heal quicker. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Russia glanced down, fishing the electronic out and glancing at it from under the table. “Excuse me,” He murmured, getting up and walking towards the doors. “I must take this call.” The room was silent as he exited the doors and pressed answer. 

“Allo?”

“Mr. Bragisnski? This is Viktor. I was told I should let you know about the status of a Mr. Jones? 

“And?” Russia stood in the hall near a potted plant, staring at the foliage. He had pulled some strings and had someone posted who could give him information quickly. None of that waiting to inform first of kin nonsense. 

“It seems the operation went well for the most part, sir.”

“Most part.” Russia’s voice held a deceitfully airy tone to it. “And what does that mean?”

“Ah. Well, sir. Mr. Jones seemed to have had a bad reaction to the epidural they gave him. It seems he had a bad reaction to it.”

“Such as?” A few thoughts raced through Russia’s mind, but he stayed silent and calm. 

“A nurse said he started shaking and they had to hold him down until the seizure passed, and then began to vomit heavily and he fractured a rib from lurching. But the operation did go well other then that.”

“I see. Thank you, Viktor.”

“Sir.” And that was the end of the phone call. Russia shut his cell, looking at the pattern drawn in the rug and turned around.

“Is my brother all right?” Canada was standing silently by the door, his face curiously blank. 

Russia glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and turned to the window. The snow was still layered thick on the windowsill. “He has had a rough time.” The Russian turned to face Canada, violet eyes steady. “You are welcome to join me as I go to the hospital.”

“That bad, eh?” Canada rubbed at his forearms, lavender eyes glazed in thought. “No, I’ll go after the meeting. I promised France and England I would go with them. Al will probably be asleep until then anyway.” The North American nation looked to the doors. “Do you think it would be better if we sent him home? I mean–“

“Nyet.” Russia began to walk down the hall, knowing one of his sisters would gather his belongings for him. “America is too weak to travel. Besides,” He stopped as he reached the corner and gave Canada a smile. 

“This will not happen again.”


	6. Chapter Six

When Russia once again entered the small room that America was situated in, the lights were off and the only illumination came from the window along the far wall. It made everything in the room seem gray and lifeless, even the man staring silently out at the blue sky– the snow having rolled away for another day. America’s blue eyes didn’t move away from the sliver of the outside world and Russia realized he was muttering quietly to himself.

He came to a stop at America’s bedside, relived that the younger nation was looking as well as he could be. The healthy glow was still absent from his skin, and dark circles still clung to his summer blue eyes. America glanced at him and then away, eyes usually so alert were dull and hazy from the cocktails of medication he received. Russia watched dry and cracked lips form words and then pause, thinning to a line and finally America turned to look at him.

“So how come the nurse is scared of me now?”

“What were you saying?” The Russian asked, taking off his coat and draping it on the back of the chair as he sat down.

America frowned, licking his lips carefully and then back to the window and clear blue sky. “Nuh-uh. I asked first.”

Shifting in his seat, Russia glanced at the door to the hospital room door, sniffing lightly. “I had a few words.”

America looked confused, but the expression melted away as he chuckled quietly. Russia watched America shake his head slowly. He looked as though he could fall over and collapse into a deep sleep at any moment. “A few words huh? Come here.”

America crooked his fingers and beckoned lightly for Russia to lean closer. After a hesitation, the larger man leaned forward. America darted his finger out, flicking him on the nose. “No intimidating people. Especially the people who control the amount of drugs I get. Let the people from the Embassy handle that.”

Russia recoiled in surprise and then glowered at the American. “Do not hit me.” He paused, and then added gruffly, “And they would not find it wise to make you more ill.”

“Right. Well, they didn’t know it’d be like that. I sure as hell didn’t either. Besides, people will start talking if you keep meddling with the hospital staff. People might find it strange.” There was a moment of clear alertness in those blue eyes that kept Russia silent, then just a quickly the weariness and the dullness of pain was back.

America gave a lopsided grin, but it crumbled quickly as he winced. Russia’s eyes narrowed as he watched the young nation shift his leg. “What is wrong?” he muttered, suddenly tense. “Should I get the nurse?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m just sore from everything, alright? You all can stop acting like I’m going to die now.”

“I do not know what you mean.” Russia crossed his arms noting that America had a green pallor to his skin.

“Yeah, you do Ivan. Everyone’s acting like I’m gonna turn to dust or something. Hell, even Mattie looked like he was going to cry when I saw him this morning.”

Well, that would be because Canada was sensible, Russia thought to himself. It didn’t sit well with him that the boisterous young man in front of him was now so pale and silent. And he didn’t even really like America. Canada was his brother. Of course he would show his concern. America was speaking again and violet eyes flickered back to his frail looking frame.

“Look. America’s alright. All my people and stuff is good. I’m not going to die or something.”

“But Alfred is not okay.”

There was a bout of silence, heavy and suffocating. “Yeah,” America finally admitted. “Alfred’s not okay.” They lapsed into silence again and Russia watched calmly as the American picked at a loose thread on the bed.

“What were you muttering before?” Russia asked, fingers tapping against his folded arms.

“Hm? It’s a poem I like…don’t give me that look– is it really so hard to believe I like poetry?” America scowled and folded his arm awkwardly, gingerly avoiding the injuries.

“I did not realize you read…anything.”

“Well, just because I don’t spew freaking Shakespeare or Hugo at every minute doesn’t mean I don’t read. God.” America looked like a pouting child, looking away from both Russia and the window to focus on a boring framed painting.

Russia had to hide the surprise he felt. “I did not mean to anger you. What was the poem?”

The young American frowned for a minute longer before turning back to Russia. “Emily Dickinson’s _‘Hope is a Thing With Feathers_ ’. It’s always made me feel better, ya know?”

“Can you recite it? I do not know it.” Russia saw the flicker of movement by the door and turned to see a nurse walking in, looking surprised. She gave a cheery smile and went to walk to Alfred’s bedside, seemingly checking something on the monitors and then scurried out. Russia waited until she was gone, eyes narrowed, and then looked back to America as he cleared his throat.

  
“Hope is a thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune –without the words,  
And never stops at all,  
And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.  
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;  
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me.”

America stopped, turned away from the sliver of sky the window offered and gave Russia a tentative smile. “Yeah. I dunno…I’ve always liked it.”

“Beautiful,” Russia agreed. America stilled, looking at Russia curiously and then looked back out the window. There was a soft blush on his cheeks and he cleared his throat. He then began to fiddle with his sheets again. “What about you? Do you have a favorite poem?”

“Not so much as favorite, more just like.” Russia said slowly.

“Oh? Can I hear it?” America looked hopeful and Russia realized that the American was hopelessly bored here in the hospital. Finally turning away in defeat from America’s pleading gaze, Russia sighed. “It is by Batiushkov. You would translate it as ‘ _Recovery_ ’.”

“Hm,” America muttered, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Sounds appropriate.”

Russia nodded and paused, feeling oddly like a parent telling their child a bedtime story. He stayed silent for a minute, remembering a translation of the poem before he spoke.

  
“As a wild flower hangs its head and wilts  
Beneath the reaper’s killing scythe,  
Ill, I awaited my untimely end  
And thought: the fateful hour’s nigh.  
With eyes already veiled by Erebus’ thick gloom,  
My heart slowed down its beat:  
I was collapsing, disappearing, and it seemed  
The sun of youth had set.  
Then you arrived, O my heat’s joy,  
And with the breath of your red lips,  
The flaming tears of your bright eyes  
The union of out kisses,  
The strength of loving words and passionate sighs  
You called me back from gloomy realms,  
From Orcus’s fields and Lethe’s shores  
Sweet pleasures to enjoy again.  
You gave me life once more, it is your healing gift,  
I’ll breathe you in until my grave.  
My mortal hour will ev’n be sweet:  
For now I die of love”

America was watching Russia’s face carefully. “Well that was not what I expected.”

“But it is pretty, da?”

“Yeah. It is.” America looked down to his bandaged hand and smiled.

“So how long have you been hiding that you recite poetry from Arthur?” Russia could only think of all the times England had gone on about how little culture the American had.

America snorted in dry amusement. “What, you don’t think he made me recite shit all the time to learn how to correctly ‘enunciate the English language’?” he rolled his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. “If it wasn’t English, it was Latin or Greek from tutors. ‘ _Arma virumque cano_ ’ and all that jazz.” America looked back at Russia and grinned. “I just think it’s all boring as hell.” He paused. “At least most of it.”

Russia thought about this new information and America settled into the pillows of the bed. “Hey, Ivan?”

“Yes, Alfred?”

America fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. “Uh, thanks for stopping by. You know, all these times. It gets really boring here.”

Russia nodded. He was watching Alfred carefully, looking for signs of anything wrong before he would have to leave for the meeting again. It was the last day of their seven-day meeting and the eleventh day America had been in the hospital. He watched America pull the sheets up further.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine.” America yawned. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “Just tired.”

America never liked to admit something was wrong, even Russia knew that. Even though the room was warm, it was possible he was just cold from exhaustion. Russia leaned behind him, pulling his jacket and standing up. He leaned forward, spreading the thick coat over the bed. Alfred’s face was immediately red.

“H-Hey. You don’t have to do that.” He moved to hand the jacket back.

“No. You use it. I will ask the staff for another blanket.”

“Um. Okay.” Russia waited until America pulled the coat up closer to his frame.

“Oh, hey. You smell good.” And before Russia cold even respond to the little quip, America had fallen back to sleep.


	7. Chapter Seven

America held one hand over his eyes, erasing his sight of the miserable hospital room and allowing himself to stay in darkness. His leg was still throbbing from his first attempt at moving only an hour ago. Four surgeries now and all he could manage was lifting and lowering his leg. It wasn’t even a step! He couldn’t support himself, he had to be held up or lying down at all times. It was pathetic and his nerves and muscles screamed. He wasn’t going to say anything about the pain, though.

It was ridiculous, he kept telling himself, that he should be crying over that when he had been through so much worse in his life. The crash could have been a lot worse. He shivered at his imagination took over, handing him all the possibilities in gory, crisp detail. His breath hitched, and the strain in this throat made his chest ache. Rubbing a hand over swollen eyes, America removed his palm and stared at the now familiar ceiling tiles. 

Sometimes, although he knew it was ridiculous because he was a nation, it felt like he’d never leave this bed he was trapped in. America tilted his head, turning to peer at the window on the far wall. Everything was dark and grey with the promise of snow once again. The wind howled loudly outside and America echoed with a stunted deep breath, trying to get his emotions schooled into a calm façade once more. America turned to the small table near his bedside. He reached over awkwardly with his one good arm and grabbed the newest addition to his reading stockpile. A copy of _National Geographic_ lay on top. He didn’t know who had left it. 

He was flipping through the pages slowly, reading an article on bio luminescence of deep sea fish in distracted interest. It was fascinating, and he would have to dog-ear it to read it later, but his mind kept wandering away with either bolt of burning pain traveling across his leg or looking up when shadows crossed his door from passersby in the hallway. Most of the reading material he only had to glance at to know who had left it, or he remembered receiving it from the person. On the bottom sat _King Lear_ , which had been one of Alfred’s favorites when he was a child much to Arthur’s displeasure. England had left it, muttering about how few decent choices were stocked at the English bookstore he had found. America gave a low, quiet and trembling laugh at that, rubbing at red swollen eyes, and continued to look down the spines of the several books lying before him. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ was above that, and America actually remembered France handing him the book to read a few days ago when he had visited again. The Frenchman had made sure the large book had completely sat right on top of the play, hiding it from sight. 

Above that was a new manga Japan had left, clearly stating that it might not be best to read it around the hospital staff. America had so far not touched it since he was hovered around people nearly at all times. Finally there were the dozen or so of Russian newspapers that he read to let the time go by quicker. Reading them helped clear his head of the drugged haze that plagued him. He wasn’t fluent by any standards, so reading was like a puzzle. He loved the mental gymnastics. He turned back to the magazine in his hands, closing it and hummed quietly. The gray light from outside and the sterile atmosphere made him feel lost, and he gazed absent-mindedly at his bed. 

America looked towards the door, and then back to the bed. Damn it, he didn’t understand. Literally every time someone stopped, he automatically checked to see if it was Russia. He must have developed some Pavlovian response what with being in the hospital all the time. Seriously, did he live here? America chuckled at that, and some of the tightness in his throat alleviated. 

There was a shuffle from the door way and America looked up in time to see a blue and gold blur launch towards his bed. America gasped as the bed dipped, flinching automatically and expecting weight to drop on his leg. However, all he heard was a chastising “Peter!” and America opened one eye to see Sealand sitting on the edge of the hospital bed.

“What did I say!” Finland was muttering to the boy, looking worriedly to America. “You’re okay, right?” He paused, and America’s face felt hot with embarrassment. He knew his skin was blotchy and his eyes red. He probably looked fucking beautiful. Finland tacked on quickly, “We can go if you’re not feeling alright.”

“Oh, uh. No! I just wasn’t expecting…that.” America turned to the micro nation before him. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hey, Alfred. You look awful.”

“Peter!” Finland crossed his arms and look disapprovingly at the child micro nation.

Sealand smiled in a way that reminded America of England and turned back to the North American nation. “Do you like the magazine we brought you? I saw it at the hotel. It has light up fish! You were sleeping though when I last saw you."

“Yeah. Thanks. It’s pretty cool, the magazine. who doesn't like light up fish?" America gave a grin to Sealand, pointing to the magazine in his lap. He then looked over to Finland as the micronation became interested in all the medical equipment nearby. “Where’s Sweden?”

“Berwald’s downstairs talking to Ivan.” The Scandinavian nation replied, holding his coat in his arms and looking pleasant.

“Ivan’s here? Again?” America ignored Sealand’s poking of his cast. Did the man ever go home? Blue eyes narrowed in thought for a second as he wondered why Russia was here yet again. 

“Jeeze, he never seems to leave,” America joked half heartedly. 

”Is he bothering you? Should I speak with Russia?” Finland asked. His face was stern, but concerned.

“No, It’s okay.” America said. “Thanks, though.”

”Of course.” Finland said, then looked towards the door. “Ah, yes.” Finland nodded and then glanced at Sealand. “I’m going to grab something. Don’t hassle Alfred.”

“I’m not!” the boy whined, rolling his eyes as he looked to America. America chuckled and turned to Sealand when Finland left.

“So what’s up?”

”I pushed Arthur of a dock.” Sealand smiled.

”Nice.” America held out for a high five.

**\--- --- ---**

Russia came in when Finland, Sweden and Sealand had left after about a half hour visit. America looked up when he saw him in his peripherals, a tired look on his face as he flipped to his place in _A Count of Monte Cristo_. He noticed that his rival didn’t sit down, but rather stood leaning against the closed door to the room. He was wearing a black sweater and slacks, scarf wrapped protectively around his neck. America pretended to read the text in front of him.

“You look like you are in pain.”

America sighed at that. “I started PT this morning. There’s a reason it’s called pain and torture by its patients.” He didn’t bother to smile and glanced up at the large nation. “Mind turning off the lights?”

There was a snick and the room plunged into soft grey light from the window. It had begun to snow. Russia still stood by the door and folded his arms. “How did it go?”

America’s lips twitched towards a frown. “So I guess the meetings are over?”

Russia stayed silent and then walked towards the ever-present chair by the young nations bedside. “Da. The last one is on Monday. I assume the therapy did not go well.”

America frowned and tried to get deeper in his reading. He almost got far enough to tune Russia out until he heard a soft, “Alfred…”

America glanced up at his name and locked onto violet eyes. “No. It didn’t, Ivan. Okay?” He continued to mutter unintelligible words to himself and then shut the book a little harshly. Summer blue eyes glanced towards Russia and then to the ceiling. He blinked though when Russia stared to laugh lightly, his voice low and melodic. “What’s so funny?” America snapped, turning his head on the pillows behind him. 

“I had simply forgotten you blushed when you are angry. You used to turn red when you were a child all the time.”

America turned a dark hue of red that flushed down his chest and he looked away from the other man pointedly. “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.”

“Da.” Russia admitted, pushing his sleeves up as he began to feel slightly hot, “It was.” 

The room fell into silence and America turned to see Russia watching the snow outside the window. He turned back to furrow deeper into the blankets and sheets. “I thought you were going to ask me out back then…” America finally said, closing his eyes. 

There was a bout of silence and he heard Russia mutter almost inaudibly, “I thought I was going to too.” 

Turning over slowly and gently, America watched Russia. The nation was still looking out of the window, but his violet eyes flickered down to America once or twice. A minute passed filled with comforting silence and America looked to the ceiling. “So when can I head home?”

“When you can walk again.”

Making a face at that, the North American nation glanced at Russia from the corner of his eye. “That’ll take forever.”

“I know this.” Russia shifted in the chair and America narrowed his blue eyes. 

“I can't stay in the hospital the whole time, they’ll be kicking me out pretty soon.”

Russia looked down his nose finally and met America’s quizzical glance. “That is why you will be living with me, Da?”

America stayed silent, staring at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. 

“WHAT?”


	8. Chapter Eight

England was still unsure about the arrangement.

“I think he’s out of his mind for orchestrating this, and you are even more bonkers for going along with it!” England muttered as he stood in America’s hospital room “You two rooming with each other for anything more than thirty seconds is going to be disastrous.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” America said. He tapped his fingers against the plastic rail of the hospital bed.

“Alfred is not able to sit through an airplane trip in his condition,” Russia replied. He stood by the door, wisely staying out of England’s pacing circle and a non-threatening distance away from America’s side. Canada was sitting down in a chair by America’s bedside, an unread magazine in his hands while he watched England loop through the room again.

“A MedEvac or something then. It could be arranged,” England countered. “You are a… special case.”

America furrowed his brows and Russia sighed. “We already thought of that, Arthur. Sure, it’s possible. But it’s not really worth it, in my opinion.” America watched as England continued to wear a line into the linoleum. “Takes a lot of effort to divert resources and I’m not exactly in critical condition.”

“And you cannot stay with the Embassy because…?”

“They’ve already agreed to have someone check in on me. Ivan offered, and I think it’s nice. Good old fashioned hospitality.” America crossed his good arm across his chest. What he didn’t add was although staying with the Embassy meant he would be with his own citizens, only one person there was authorized with a high enough clearance to know who he was. Of course, they currently had no idea he was a Nation until he decided they had the official Need To Know. Even if he was looking forward to explaining this all, it was a lot easier to be in this state with someone he at least knew, whether or not they were close. “I had reservations at first too, but I think it’s the best plan.”

“You can’t be seriously fine with this,” England said to Canada, realizing his words were futile with America.

“Actually,” Canada said with a small huff, “I’m fine with it.” He looked back challengingly at England’s furious stare and shrugged when he turned to his brother. “You’re not really fighting right now, and Ivan’s been pretty attentive during this whole situation.” There was something in Canada’s gaze that made America’s throat tighten and he looked down at the covers to avoid his eyes. “Besides, if anyone’s going to make sure you take your meds, it’s not going to be a stranger.”

Alfred made a face at the mention of the medication regiment. He was going to be put on blood thinners, ones that he had to inject into his own stomach with a needle. When America had began to complain, the nurse simply reminded him that sure, he didn’t have to do it, but he should look forward to the inevitable blood clot and having to amputate his leg.

“Healing inside his own boarders would be best,” England reminded them all. He had stopped pacing, and was now leaning by the window. He still scowled.

“I am not arguing with that,” Russia said. America looked up at him. His hands were clasped behind his back and he wore a thick black sweater. His scarf hung loosely around his neck. Blond hair was damp with melting snow. “But it is not practical. Not at this time.”

England turned to the larger man, green eyes narrowed in contemplation. He furrowed a hand through his hair, and crossed his arms. “What I don’t understand about all of this is why you of all people care if anything happens to him.”

“It would not be good if Alfred were to die here.” Russia said simply. “I was to be host when he came for the meeting: This is me being a host.”

“Arthur,” America said quietly when it looked like he was about to start another argument and call bullshit, “It’s okay. I mean, sure. I’m not really walking yet, but I don’t think he’s exactly panning on giving me polonium tea during my stay” America winked at Russia, smiled when the other man glowered in response.

“Stop instigating, “ Canada chastised only loud enough for America to hear. Alfred turned and stuck out his tongue in a quick childish motion. There was a dull buzz and Canada turned to look down to his personal phone. He checked the screen, sighed and stood from the chair. “Come on, Arthur. Francis can’t remember how to get in. We have to go grab him.”

“Let the git stay in the lobby for all I care,” England replied caustically.

Canada shook his head, rolling his eyes at the relieved look America gave him as he began to corral the flustered man out of the hospital room. “Alfred has another PT session in an hour and Francis wanted to see him before his flight. Besides, I need something warm. It’s freezing in here.”

America doubted that since he had pushed up the shirtsleeves of his button up about a half an hour ago and was still looking comfortable.

“Would you get me a tea?” Russia asked.

England looked as though he wanted to tell him where to shove it, but Canada had one arm on his shoulder, pushing him out the hospital room door. “Sure,” he said and closed it.

“Better make sure Arthur doesn’t try to lace it with something and try to kick your ass in an alley somewhere,” America said, glad to have the room quiet again. His head throbbed slightly and heard the clack of the switch turned off. The fluorescents above died. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Would he really try something like that?” Russia asked curiously. He walked closer to the bed, but did not take a seat.

“No. I’m messin’ with you.” America said and yawned. “But he is pretty protective still.”

“You still have headaches from the light?” Russia asked.

“Yep. Devil’s technology.” Alfred looked at the dark lights and sighed. They always buzzed and made his eyes ache. Russia snorted, drawing America’s gaze onto him. He turned to the window and America looked back down at the sheets. “So, what’s your place like? Any dungeons I should worry about? Thumb screws in the closets?”

Russia huffed at the comment, violet eyes contemplating America for a moment before looking out the window again. “There is no such thing.”

“Oh, good. Physical therapy’s already got the torture thing cornered anyway.”

“You will like it, I think.” Russia added and when he saw America’s confused expression he added, “The apartment. It is warm and comfortable.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is home.”

America thought of his own place, a small apartment in Washington, DC he stayed in for work, and the farmhouse on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains he stayed in when he was able to sneak away.

“Where is it?” America asked.

“On the outskirt of Moscow. About a half hour drive.”

Something bit the inside of America’s chest at the thought of the car ride. His fingers twitched, thinking of the snowstorm and the flash of lights that were his only warning before being slammed into a new world of pain.

“Alfred?”

“Sorry.” America didn’t look at Russia. He pulled at the sheet covering his legs and frowned. “Did you say something?”

“No.” Russia was watching too closely. America wanted to squirm away from the intensity of his gaze. “You became silent.”

“Just tired.” he yawned to back up his story.

Russia didn’t reply, and America was still trapped under the knowing violet eyes. He looked out the window and saw a bird perched on the ledge. “Hey, a chickadee!”

Russia turned reluctantly, staring at the bird with surprise as though he expected it to be a rouse. “No. It is a coal tit, I think.”

“Whatever.” America smiled and whistled out the chickadee call.

“What are you doing?”

“Singing to the bird,” America replied, smirking at Russia’s face. It was stuck somewhere between concern, incredulousness and annoyance.

“It is not a chickadee. It is a coal tit.”

America laughed. It felt good and only hurt his ribs a little. “Yeah, I’d be concerned if you had Carolina chickadees flying around here. Might have to investigate why you’re stealing my birds.”

Russia glanced back to the window where the little bird hopped. It tilted its black and white head before it left in a flurry of black and brown.

“Is there a time you were planning on telling me you are scared of the car ride?” Russia asked.

America’s blue eyes darkened and he stilled. “What?”

“It is obvious.”

“I’m not scared.”

“It is alright to be.” Russia gave him a pitying glance before turning back to the window. It made the American’s chest seize in anger.

America glared at Russia. “Yeah, well I’m not. It’s fine.”

The door to the room opened before Russia could say anything else and Canada walked through, holding a squat paper cup out to Russia, the tail of a tea bag fluttering in the movement. Russia took it with quiet thanks and Canada paused, looking between the two nations in the room. He looked at America and America returned the silent question with a tired glare.

“Decaf black tea should be considered a sin,” England muttered as he walked in, France trailing behind him with an amused smile.

“Good to see you awake again, Alfred,” France said in greeting.

America was glad for the distraction. “Glad to be awake and not in pain.”

“They have you on the good drugs then.”

“The best,” America said with a languid thumbs up.

Russia was frowning while France chuckled, and turned to stand in the corner, allowing the rest of America’s family to be closer.

“Arthur says you will be staying with Ivan?” France continued, taking a seat on one of the chairs by the bed and lounged back in it. His cheeks were red from the cold and snow still dusted the shoulders of the black pea coat he wore.

“Yeah.” America forced himself to not look at the corner. His chest still felt tight.

“Should be interesting,” England grumbled into the tea and Francis smiled.

“I’m betting on it.” America said.


	9. Chapter Nine

America sat in Russia’s car annoyed. Outside the window, he could hear muffled speech and glanced at his brother and England bundled up against the Russian weather, their taxi lingering a few parking spots away as they talked to Russia. It was getting colder in the black car as the conversation was only supposed to last for a few minutes, tops. Now America wondered petulantly if he should look forward to death by frostbite. They had already said their goodbyes and he wasn’t sure what they were still talking about.

He turned his attention to the inside of the car. It was clean in the way that said someone took care of the automobile but obviously used it a lot. The car smelled like faded leather. He sunk into the reclined chair, listening to his back squeaking against the seat and stretched out his leg gingerly. Russia had his hand on the Driver’s side door handle, looking like he way about to open it. No. False alarm. America drummed his fingers against the plastic siding of the passenger door. God, he wished he could at least play some music right now.

America glanced at the console, eyes sweeping across the inlayed buttons that would control the music and volume. Something cold welled up inside him, sloshing around in an icy tightness that shuddered in his throat. He turned away, blinking furiously and focused on the parking lot outside his window where England and Canada stood.

The conversation finally seemed to end and Alfred looked back into the car when the door opened with a jerk and America could hear the tail end of England and Canada’s final farewell before they were off to the airport. Russia clambered into the seat and shut the door quickly to stop what little heat was still in the car from escaping. There was a tap at the window, and Alfred opened the door enough to look up at Canada. His nose and cheeks were already red.

“I’ll be back in a two weeks to check in on you,” he said.

America shivered against the cold air leaking into the cabin. “You better. Someone’s got to make sure I’m not dead yet.” He smiled at hearing Russia grumble and he turned the car on, heat slowly seeping out the vents.

“Nah,” Canada said quietly. “You’re hearty.” There was something in the way that he said it that made America’s chest ache.

“Later,” America said. He gave a small thumbs-up.

Canada shut the car door, tapping the roof twice as his final farewell and jogged over the taxi where England was waiting. America watched until the door was shut and turned to the air vents, twisting it so the heat would lavishly fall on him. He held out his hands, letting his fingertips be warmed. Russia was looking at him and he growled out, “What?”

“Nothing.” Russia placed his hand down on the gearshift and placed the car into drive, briefly checking the mirrors and making sure no one was coming near. He hesitated before moving, putting the car radio onto some sort of DJ talk show or something.

America withdrew his hands from the vents, pulled back into the chair and rested his head against his hand. He leaned against the door ledge, looking down to the bottom of the car as they began to move. Neither said a word. The radio programs’ interview had a serious quality to it. America felt too tired to want try and translate it. He was better at reading anyway. He continued to look away from the moving road, instead looking around at the interior of the car. Once or twice he glanced over to Russia, but he was focused on the road. His eyes never flickered over. Inside, America wanted to groan. Wasn’t this going to be the best fucking car ride ever.

“Stop that.” Russia said, startling America out of his thoughts.

“What?”

Russia frowned, eyes still on the road ahead. “That clicking noise you are doing with your tongue. It is driving me insane.”

America stared at him baffled, unable to recall doing anything. “What, this?” He asked and chanced it by drawing his tongue down from the roof of his mouth in a gentle clack.

Russia’s lips turned down in a angry frown. “Yes,” he hissed.

“Sorry.” There was a quick retort just waiting to fall out that Russia didn’t need any of America’s help to be driven crazy, that train had left long ago– but he never voiced it. Needing to break the awkward silence, America clapped his own hand over his mouth and turned to Russia, “Hmmff hiff?”

Chuckling, Russia’s grip loosened on the steering wheel. “Much better.” He added dryly, “Perhaps you should do that more often.” His lips curled up in a smile. “Much more pleasant for the ears.”

America crossed his arms gently, careful of the soft sling that held his mending arm. He gave a huff of false irritability. “Oh, well, in that case I think its time to start reading aloud to you. I know a great story about a man from Nantucket.” He finally glanced at the road. The traffic was light, with only one other car visible in front of them. America leaned back into the seat and resumed his original position— slouched against the door with his chin propped up in his hand. “Well isn’t this just a bundle of fun.” His eyes flickered up at seeing a flash from the corner of his eyes, tensing slightly as he watched a car sped past them. The car suddenly pulled in front of them; switching lanes in such a manner that Russia had to hit the brakes.

_Crack._

Russia whipped his head away from the speeding car hightailing down the road and to America. The nation took a hitched breath and looked at Russia, then down at his hands.

“Whoops,” America said breathlessly.

Russia, who was still driving, glanced up at the rearview mirror and then pulled over to the side of the road, parking the car along the shoulder and turning to America.

“Are you alright?”

America was pale and clenched his fist tightly as he noticed the fine tremor in his hands. He felt the cold fear sluice through his veins. For a moment, neither said anything and Russia turned off the radio, still watching the young nation.

Finally America released his fingers and unveiled fine plastic shards. So much for that. He took a slow breath, trying to stop the panicky jitters that made him breathe shallowly. “Uh…Yeah. I’ll-uh, I’ll pay for that. I didn’t mean to crush your door handle pocket thingy.” He glanced away from Russia’s violet eyes and to the window. He clutched his hand close again. “Sorry.”

Russia turned back into his seat, looking out at the road where cars flew by. He fixed his scarf slightly, dipping one of the folds farther away from his chin. The air seemed to be getting thicker in the car and America waited miserably for the other man to say something.

“Door handle pocket thingy?”

America glanced back over to the other man, eyes slightly wide. “Yum…yeah. The holder thing...-y.”

Russia hummed, tapping the steering wheel to an inaudible beat for a moment before glancing back over at his passenger. Blue met violet. “Ah. Your grasp of the English language has always amazed me, dear friend.” Ignoring the muttering America started with, he continued on, stopping the tapping of his fingers. “You thought we were about to crash. Da?” America frowned and curled slightly into his frame. God this was embarrassing. It was impossible to curl away with his injured leg, but he still tried. Russia waited for a few seconds before continuing. “That is why the underside of the door handle…is no more.”

America didn’t look at him, rubbing gently at his leg from where he had instantly clenched his muscles for the imagined impact. Now the wounded leg was throbbing. In truth, seeing them get so close to the car had simply caused the instance of the crash sweep across his vision.

“It is your first time back in a car.” Russia continued to talk, and America realized that the other was not searching for an answer.

_We both already know that,_ America thought. He remembered an argument over the looming car trip two days ago in the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to think about it. He wondered if Russia would taunt him with that fact.

“You thought of the crash.” Russia said plainly.

“You know, you said this was only going to be a twenty minute car trip,” America responded airily. He chanced a quick glance over at the other and locked eyes briefly. “It’s going to get dark soon if you don’t hurry up.”

“I would like to have my car end up in one piece, not dust.”

“I said I was sorry!” America whined, and folded his arm across his stomach and over his mending arm.

“Perhaps you should sleep. Then you would not see the cars.”

“I’m fine. ‘Sides, shutting my eyes would be worse.” America started to tap out a nervous rhythm against his thigh. His breathing had evened out. He was exhausted. 

America watched Russia peer over his shoulder, waiting for a large gap in the traffic before easing the car back onto the road. He said nothing as he noticed they were going a little slower than before and with a larger berth between the cars.

The rest of the ride was silent, and for that America was grateful. Perhaps if it were his brother he would have just talked about the fact that being in a car made him tense and uneasy or joked about it until his leg stopped throbbing. Every time he saw a car come close it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. But Russia was not his brother and it felt awkward. He didn’t want to talk about it. So America played the silent game with himself and spent the trip morosely staring at the city bleed away.

When the sun hung low and lit the grey sky a buttery yellow, they pulled to a stop in front of a large white and tan building. It looked to have once been a large stately home, but was now cut up to allow several families live within it.

“So that’s your place, huh?” America asked as Russia parked the car and took the keys from the ignition.

Ivan glanced through the windshield and to the house. “Yes. I am on the second floor.”

America turned to him and rolled his head slightly. “Of course. The second floor.” Awesome. Stuck in a wheelchair for at lest another week on the second floor. Great.

Ivan gave one of his famous childlike smiles. “And of course there is an elderly grandmother that lives below us. She cannot walk the stairs so you will have company at least. I will make arrangements for,” he paused looking for the right word. “Ah, yes. A play date” he said mirthfully.

“Awesome.”


	10. Chapter Ten

They were inside the atrium to the house, America’s cheeks burning red from the brief moments outdoors and Russia closed the door behind him. America looked up to the staircase leading to the second landing.

“So where’s the elevator?” He asked.

Russia shook his head. “There is none.”

America is stared up at him, sitting awkwardly in the wheelchair he’d been forced to use. His neck hurt looking up at Russia in that angle. “You better be fucking with me Braginsky.”

Russia hushed him at the swear, looking mildly thoughtful at the staircase in front of them. America was about to snap at him when an apartment door to their left slowly creaked open, and America found himself looking at a wizen face with a puff of white hair styled neatly on her head, peering out at the two men. “Vanyushka,” she said in greeting, tittering softly as she clutched the frame of the door, and continued in wobbly Russian that was accented deeply enough that Alfred couldn’t tell what she was saying.

Russia left his post by America’s side, stepping towards his elderly neighbor and greeting her in his soft, deep voice. America listened to the conversation, eyes listing away from the stairs and finding the pale marble expanse of Ivan’s jaw as he spoke. He watched the way his jaw worked, changing with each syllable uttered, rounding with vowels and tightening with the harsher consonants. Realizing he was staring, America’s blue eyes lanced away, realizing the older woman had disappeared back into the apartment, apparently getting something since Russia was still waiting by the open door, and came back out with a handful of full Tupperware. Russia took them, after what seemed to be polite hesitation, and the woman bade him farewell with a kiss to his cheek and shuffled back inside.

“What was that about?” America asked when Ivan returned.

“Ah, my neighbor. She noticed I had not been home much and took it upon herself to make food for me.” He looked down at the food in his hands and America watched the soft smile bloom on the other man’s lips. “She noticed I had company and gave us plenty. She is a good cook. You will like it, I think.”

“Well, that was nice of her,” America replied. He could feel his stomach growling at the thought of food. The earlier shock of the car ride had sent his adrenaline soaring. Now all he was left with was shaky exhaustion and the urge to sleep. At least his hand had stopped shaking.

Russia nodded, looking at the food in his hands and then at America before walking up the stairs. “I will be right back,” He called back as he was halfway up, turned to the left and fell out of America’s sight. He sighed, and looked down to the floor. It looked to be marble, though it had obviously seen better days. The manor had been chopped up into several smaller apartments, and in the formerly grand entryway America could see four other apartment doors. The walls were covered in a yellow print wallpaper that was torn in a small spot near the ceiling, but everything was clean and warm looking. It was obviously lived in and cared for. America thought he could grow to like it.

Russia came back down, his coat gone and stopped on the last step, looking down at America thoughtfully. Finally, he stepped towards the wheelchair and sighed. America tensed. “I think I have to carry you up.”

“No fucking way.”

“You do not have a choice.”

America bristled at that, “Oh, really?”

Russia folded his arms, languidly leaning against the banister. The redness in his cheeks was gone from the biting cold earlier. “You cannot walk.”

America glared at the floor. “So I’ll just drag myself up.”

“With your injured arm still in a sling?”

“Yup.”

“You are being a child,” Russia admonished and before America could snap back about how he was the childish one, Russia stalked forward, easily pulling America out of the wheelchair and into his arms. America was still as Russia shifted his grasp, one hand behind his back and the other under his better leg.

“Okay?” Russia asked, mindful of the other man’s injuries. America gave a mute nod and ignored the flame of hot embarrassment eating at his skin as Russia carried him up the stairs. He stared resolutely at the stairs, rather than turning into the other’s shoulders or looking up at Ivan’s pale blond hair. They turned to the left and at the end of the hall, Russia carried him through the threshold of the open apartment doorway.

America tried to look at the apartment, but became dizzy as Russia turned and deposited him onto a beep blue couch. It was a gentle movement, but it still jostled America’s leg and he grit his teeth to avoid the flinch of pain.

A blanket was draped over him and America stared at the multicolored crocheted quilt before staring at Russia who was in the middle of gathering the cushions and bringing them over for America to lean into. America took them, batting away the other man’s hand. “I can do this, don’t worry.” America was afraid the next step was ping tucked in and swaddled by the nervous man. He drew the line at that. When Russia didn’t back up, a look of obvious doubt painted over his face, America bent his leg just slightly enough so he could lean forward and grab the blanket to arrange himself better on the couch. “See, I’m fine.” He ignored the throb in his knee that clearly was calling him out on his lie.

“I will be back in a minute.” Russia looked torn and for one moment America was nervous to what was going on in the taller man’s head, but simply shrugged and relaxed against the couch arm.

“I’ll be right here.”

Russia nodded and left the apartment, closing the door behind him. America sighed, closing his eyes at the ache of a promise of a headache. He sighed again, this time in self-exasperation and looked about the apartment.

It really was cozy, which was a surprise to him. Okay, so he logically knew that Russia’s home would be normal, but that didn’t mean he had once imagined at some point the house would fit his ‘Evil Russian’ presumptions— dead animal heads staring at you from every angle, torture weapons barely hidden from under the couch or in the corner, blue prints to destroy democracy taped to the walls, and tortured people hanging from the ceiling. The usual décor to every villain’s home. Russia’s home however was nothing even close to this.

America was slightly amazed at the apartment that he could see so far and allowed his gaze to crawl along the walls. The room was yellow, but a warm buttery yellow that made you want to curl up into a blanket and sleep winter away. On the wall across from the couch was a fireplace, the once blue mantle smudged and flecked grey. Wrapping around it and covering the entire wall were endless bookshelves filled to the brim with books, a magpie collection ranging from solemn tomes to more neon contemporaries. America craned his neck to looks at the rest of the room, seeing colorful paintings depicting everything from portraits to landscapes. A multicolored patchwork quilt lay folded in the corner of the room. In all everything was simply so…colorful. But it was colorful in a way that made America want to curl up rather than gouge his eyes out. It was a far cry away from the normal pale or drab colors that Ivan tended to wear.

The door creaked open and Russia walked in, carrying the folded wheelchair in along with America’s suitcase for the stay. He put the items in the corner, and America smiled at seeing another case of Tupperware in the other man’s hands. “Don’t tell me she gave you more food.”

“It appears so.” He raised a fogging glass bowl up slightly before turning his violet eyes towards Alfred. “I hope you like rabbit. And I do not mean as a fuzzy pet.”

“Yeah, I like rabbit.” America tilted his head to watch Russia move towards the hallway, no doubt heading for the kitchen he couldn’t see. “Why?”

“For some reason I would imagine you as being concerned over eating a rabbit.” Russia’s voice carried clearly from the kitchen even though Alfred couldn’t see him. America focused on curling and uncurling his toes as a strengthening exercise.

“What? Why would you think that? I’m no vegetarian, I love burgers remember?” America winced as light pain crept up his leg from the repeated movement, and paused to level and relax his voice. “I used to eat rabbit all the time, it’s not so popular now, but sometimes I catch it if I’m out hunting or I’ll order it off the menu. Anyway, I love meat. M-E-A-T. It spells love you know.”

Russia had reappeared in the doorway, having put away the food. “I had not realized,” he said in amusement. He crossed his arms over a black knitted sweater, leaning against the doorframe as he looked at America.

“Totally.” America said flippantly, focused more on the excersize than the superficial conversation. He looked away from Russia to where he was still curling his toes back and forth. Now he didn’t feel so stiff and old. “Yep. Not many people know. True love is meat.”

“Then cannibalism is the truest form of love?”

“What? No.” America looked up, face scrunched in disgust. “That’s just wrong”

Russia shrugged, coming into the small living room area. “It is a simple following of logic.” America’s eyes followed him, surprised when the other simply sat on the floor and rested against the cold hearth. He drew up his knees and looked more like a young man about to read a book or smoke than a once formidable and deadly foe. But America suspected that was due to him being within his own home and was therefore comfortable. America himself probably should have been more uncomfortable, but after being trapped in the hospital and the flimsy gowns, anything was heaven. “Would it not make sense that if meat is love, therefore cannibalism follows?”

“Would you eat the person you love? Totally not going out with you if that’s the case.” America looked around the room, eyes caught by small glass bowl. He missed Russia’s sharp gaze. “You have pet fish?”

“Nyet.” Russia looked confused and followed America’s eyes, craning his neck up. Finally his bright gaze fell on the object the younger nation had been asking about and cleared his throat. “I had fish. About five years ago”

“Five years ago?”

“Da.”

“And you never thought about getting rid of the tank?”

“Nyet.”

“Why?”

“I had planned on getting more fish.” Russia was looking back at the couch and for some reason the word ‘pet’ and ‘Russia’ were not cohesive to America’s brain, which was already muddled up from the cocktail of medicines he had.

“Wait,” Alfred said, holding up a hand. “You had fish, but they died, and you want to get more? Never mind…what kind of fish was it?” He began to braid the tassels of the old blanket covering his lap, blue eyes looking over the rim of his glasses.

“It was a red beta fish. I named him Sputnik and had him for a few years.” Russia was getting back up, the spiced scent of heating food filling the room.

“So what happened to it? Just got old?”

Russia’s face flushed red and he turned, murmuring, “It turns out fish do not like vodka.”

Russia walked into the kitchen and America looked back to empty fish tank. “Alcohol poisoning.” Alfred chuckled to himself and folded his hands. “I guess there’re worse ways to die as a fish.” He just hoped he ended up better than the fish.


	11. Chapter Eleven

It was four days into their precarious set up. America couldn’t seem to relax. He was tense, and unsure of all his actions; hyperaware of everything he said and every movement. Samantha, the mouse brown haired woman from the American Embassy, had checked up on him at the apartment the day after he had settled in and that had been a small reprieve in the anxiousness. How was he? Fine. How were the accommodations? Good. Did he have any trouble administering the medications to himself? No. She had nodded in satisfaction and reminded him about the car that would bring him to required physical therapy sessions and to call her if there was anything more he needed. Beyond that brief interaction and the physical therapy session yesterday, it was just him and Russia.

America now lay on the guest room bed, the door open slightly to the hallway. He knew Russia was only a breath away, probably sitting in the living room and typing away at his computer and doing some work. America on the other hand was frowning at the syringe in his hand.

It didn’t hurt that much. Not really. He just really didn’t like needles. He lifted his shirt up to look at the broad expanse of his stomach, looking for the right place to inject the blood thinners. He couldn’t inject in the same spot as yesterday and he couldn’t go near any scars. He had few, compared to that of other nations, but there were more than the average human had.

“Do you need help with that?”

America jerked his head up, meeting violet eyes. “Uh.” America could feel his cheeks going red and he frowned, unsure as why he was suddenly flustered. He sighed. “Actually, yeah. Can you drain this to 40 mg? I was just going to drain it into the wastebasket here, but it would actually be easier if you did it.”

Russia stepped into the room and took the syringe out of America’s hand. “40 mg?” Russia checked.

“Yeah.” Alfred watched Russia drain the excess medication and took it back when the syringe was now ready. “Thanks. Saved me a few minutes of awkward shuffling to the edge of the bed.” He looked back down at his stomach.

“Do you want help with this?” Russia asked, also looking at his stomach.

“No,” America answered quickly, pinching up the skin and thin fat. He took a quick breath to steady his nerves, it really was more nerves than pain he reminded himself, and injected the medicine.

When he pulled away then syringe, he pressed a cotton ball quickly in it place, stopping the small welling of blood. He capped the syringe and put it on the side table for disposal later. Russia took it, throwing it away to the wastebasket by the side of the bed. “See,” America said. “All good.”

Russia gave a small smile. “You looked like you wanted to pass out.”

“I don’t like needles,” America muttered, checking to see if the blood had stopped.

“Baby,” Russia said, but America could tell by the inflection that it wasn’t meant to be an insult. 

America stuck his tongue out and pulled his shirt back down. He looked at Russia, tilting his head and huffed. “Ya know, this could end up being a whole lot’a wrong.”

Russia frowned at that. “What do you mean?”

America shrugged, pulling himself up higher on the pillows of the bed with his elbows. “I mean,” America huffed and blew an errant hair out of his eyes, “Like Misery– did you ever see that movie?”

Russia leaned against the wall of the guest bedroom. It was small and painted a soft blue. It was only enough big enough for the wood bed, a small nightstand, and a dresser that currently held the meager belongings from America’s suitcase. There was a watercolor painting of some ships in a harbor on the opposite wall from Russia and a single window behind America’s bed. It was a little past cozy and a step closer to snug. “I have not,” Russia answered. He folded his arms across his black ribbed sweater.

“Huh.” America eyed the turtleneck, noticing the ever-present scarf was gone. “Well, it’s sort of a situation like this. Guy’s hurt and someone takes care of him– only the woman who takes care of the guy smashes his feet so he can’t leave when he starts getting better.”

“Sounds like she was crazy,” Russia said.

“Glad you agree,” America said, flashing a grin when Russia tossed a glare in his direction.

“You will not have to worry about this happening to you,” Russia muttered and moved away from the wall.  
“No?”

“No. For that would require you to stay here longer and you are already whiny with a healing leg. I would not want to see you back at square one.” Russia smiled when America shot him a small glare and walked over to the night table, picking up one of the orange pill bottles with a little shake. “Have you taken this yet?” He asked.

America glanced at it and then to the foot of the bed. “No.”

Russia shook the bottle again, “Why not?”

“They make me groggy and half awake. I don’t like feeling like that.” America shrugged and added, “’sides, they make me nauseous.”

“It is pain medication. Of course it makes you tired.”

“Well, look I’ll take it later.” America frowned at looked up at Russia who was still holding the bottle, expression unreadable.

Russia shook his head after a moment. “Nyet. You need to be consistent with medication.”

“Oh, come on. Like you’re one to talk.”

“Excuse me?”

“Any time I have ever seen you hurt you always shrug off first aid,” America said. He folded his own arms gingerly.

Russia huffed. “That was during times of battle. This,” he said and pushed gently against America’s arm, “is not. You will be a good patient.” He seemed to consider something, tilting his head to the side. “Come to the living room with me.”

“What, why?”

“I can keep an eye better on you,” Russia muttered and helped America sit up despite America swatting his hand away initially.

“I don’t need that.”

“It will make me feel better. And I can make sure you take your medicines.”

America grunted as he sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at Russia when he stepped away, “If you get that fucking wheelchair, I’ll loose my mind.”

“Can you put weight on your leg?”

“A little.” America was sitting upright on the bed, his legs over the edge. He was staring at the floor ignoring the stutter of pain in his hip.

Russia nodded, hooking one arm under America’s and pulled him up. America cursed, leaning heavily on Russia at the sudden change. He panted, still staring at the floor. After a minute he nodded and muttered, “Alright, let’s go.”

America took small steps with one leg, only able to gingerly touch the other foot to the ground unless he wanted sharp pains in his thigh. Russia had taken most of his weight, and they shuffled slowly towards the living room.

“I’m not sure how this is better than using the wheelchair.”

“Shut up,” America grit out, focusing on not putting any weight on his bad leg.

They finally turned the corner to the living room and Russia helped America down to the couch. America sighed as he pulled his legs up, glad to not have any strain on them. He reached behind him and adjusted the pillows and sighed in comfort as he settled. The pill bottle rattled by his head and America scowled at Russia who was holding the medication out along with a small glass of water.

“Medicine, now.” Russia said sweetly and America muttered unintelligible curses under his breath as he took the bottle, tapping out two of the white pills and finished the glass of water.

“Happy?”

“Yes.” Russia said, putting the bottle on the mantle and turning around with a smug grin.

“Glad to hear it.” America settled further into the couch cushions. Russia took a seat in an armchair, pulling his laptop off of the coffee table and resumed working. America looked around bored until he felt the stress ball trapped under one of the pillows and pulled it free, squeezing it gently and then tossing it into the air and catching it slowly. “I think I’m going to ask Samantha to bring a bench for the shower. Yours is way to small to sit in and I’m really getting tired of sponge bathing.”

“The shower is small,” Russia agreed without looking away from the computer, “I hit my elbow every day in there.”

“Might be why you’re so irritable all the time,” America chuckled.

Russia looked up at that, pulling one hand though his ashy blond hair. “I am not irritable,” he growled.

America rolled his eyes and then focused back to the ball between his fingers. “Yeah. Sure you aren’t, ya big bear.”

“Bear?”

Humming, the American tossed the ball between his fingers once more before squishing it slightly. “You snore like one. I could hear you through the walls last night.”

“I do not snore.”

“Yeah, you do.” He tossed the red ball between his hands quickly before tilting his head back to look at the other man. “Are you… pouting?”

Russia glared at America and the clatter of keys filled the silence. “Nyet. Pouting is for small children, or you,” he huffed finally.

America aborted a laugh by turning it into a cough, quick enough to escape the Russian’s ire. He turned to look around the room and then looked to the coffee table, the only thing within reach. There was a worn dark green book and he pulled it into his lap. Already the medicine was starting to take hold and he lazily glanced at the words. It was a picture book in Russian and the cover sported a gold and red dragon. America smiled at it in delight. The pages were yellow and the spine creaked as he opened it to see what it was. After scanning the pages quickly he glanced up in amused confusion. “What’s up with the book of fairy tales?”

Ivan tore his attention away from the laptop to look at the green book. “Ah, that is Anechka’s. She left it here last time.”

“Anechka?” America questioned, putting the book back into his lap. “Who’s that?”

Russia tapped quickly at the keys of the computer. “My neighbor’s daughter. She is a single mother, so I watch her daughter sometimes when the babysitter is late.” He nodded towards the book, “Last time I read the stories to her.” When America didn’t say anything, he glanced up.

“That’s really cool,” America said softly and flipped through the book, studying an inked drawing of a house propped up on chicken feet. “Bet she’s terrified of the stories though. This is an old edition. Some of these are pretty freaky.”

“I leave some things out. She is only six.”

“Ah, so you are good with kids.”

“I would have to be. I am friends with you.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

Russia stood still, his back pressed to the wall as he listened to the soft noises within the house. The murmuring from the elderly woman’s radio below them and Anechka and her mother talking as they walked to the stairs for school hinted at the early morning. Neither of these sounds interested him though, and instead he listened to the hitched breathing of the other nation enclosed within the guest room walls. The surface of the hall wall was cold, seeping into the muscles of his back through his loose butter yellow sweater. His fingers grazed his brow, swiping away bangs, and Russia continued to stare at nothing.

It was over a month since the crash. Even with the hastened healing of a nation, it was a slow process of regaining mobility and strength in the leg that had been destroyed. Both Russia and America knew if he had been human he would have never walked again. He would heal back to full strength, though the multiple puckered scars that raced along his calves were still in question to whether they would fully fade. Scars on nations were strange things. Sometimes they correlated to history, other times they did not.

Once America had been able to sit up straight for longer periods of time, Samantha given him an encrypted laptop so he could manage some work. It at least brought peace to the small apartment. America had been diving him crazy with trivial conversation and non-stop fidgeting at the deprivation of being able to do anything. Russia would not let him leave the apartment save the mandatory visits for physical therapy and it was clear America was unhappy with it. Not that he was able to go anywhere on his own. America could barely stand without gnashing his teeth in pain. Rest was somehow the cause of trouble, and it was surprisingly hard keeping America from harming himself more.

It had come as a surprise to him since he thought that America – who was normally so loud and talked without thinking– would readily complain if even the slightest muscle twinge. Russia had really expected more dramatics and insistence for attention. In reality, it was the opposite. Rather, Russia was starting to believe he could be in the worst pain of his life and simply would act like nothing was wrong until he was alone.

Alfred’s arm had healed first, and he had near full mobility of it once again. Sometimes in the morning when he was nursing a cup of coffee, Russia would catch him glancing sullenly at either his elbow or wrist before rubbing it in silence. It was the stiffness of the newly healed injury acting up, and yet America would simply shrug it off when Russia questioned it and find some way to change the topic.

But where the real issue came, the one that made Russia nervous, was America’s blatant refusal to use the wheelchair at all. “I’ll crawl on the floor before I use that thing willingly,” Alfred had murmured yesterday morning, the hot ceramic of his coffee cup resting against his cheek.

“You will hurt yourself if you don’t and then you will be bound to it,” Russia had retorted, sipping at tea and studying the younger nation. America cracked open his blue eyes, gazing over the rims of his crooked glasses before shutting them again and reveling in the warmth of the cup and the sunlight of the cold morning.

“They wont bind me to it,” he had snorted. America took a sip of his cup and then placed it down on the table with a heavy clack. Blue eyes looked to his crutches lying against the counter and then to the sleek black phone on the table as it buzzed with a new email. “And I’m not going to be hurt by not using that death contraption.” He had quickly turned the phone on, scanning the message quickly. His lips quirked and Russia had glanced to the stove.

“You will.” Russia had wanted to take the phone away to beat it into his head that if he didn’t rest, and didn’t follow the advice of the doctors and therapists, he was going to hurt himself more. He knew he was frustrated and was trying to force healing. It was easy to see the hard look in his eye after every therapy session or when he couldn’t do more repetitions in his therapy exercises.

America had simply shrugged and mentioned the time, knowing Russia had to leave for a meeting he could not miss.

That had been yesterday morning.

This morning, the sunlight was cold and gray as it leaked through the drawn curtains. The room was cold in blue shadow, but Russia stood outside in the hall, leaning against the wall as he looked at the ceiling and listened to the hitched breathing from within the door.

America wasn’t taking slow progress well. He never had. It was always ‘I’m going to do this and it will happen now’. Russia admired that: the brazen strength that so few nations still had to keep getting up and moving with such outward optimism. Now he listened to America, probably in pain from working at the healing leg too hard and deliberated on what to do. Violet eyes traced a hairline crack scrawled across the ceiling, a little brown from where water had slowly built up over the years. The walls were thin and cold, rough against Russia’s back as he listened to Alfred take another tight and choked breath. His violet eyes moved from studying the darkened ceiling to the wall across from him, staring at the smallest whorls of paint of an oil painting of a ship cutting through a glossy gray sea.

Russia wasn’t sure why he cared so much that America so quietly dealing with pain. Really, wasn’t that what he had hoped for? That the man would leave him alone for the most part, get better, and then leave? There was a tightness to his chest instead where he heard the soft breaths. His fingers ached to do something when he noticed America’s eyes glossy and rimmed red. He now found himself frowning at America when he was laughing off concerns with such a carefree façade.

He frowned down at the floor, rubbing his own wrist in thought. When had he started to pick up on these small fragments of emotion, so complex like a scattered puzzle? He wished he could blame it on watching a rival for too many years, but there was a softer layer that hid under that stony lie. At the same time, maybe that was all. Maybe it was empathy for a former enemy. Maybe it was realizing a great rival had turned into a friend. Russia looked to the door, still rubbing at his wrist. He moved his hand up, rubbing his neck and listing to the rasp of stubble as he thought silently on what to do.

Well, there really wasn’t much of a choice, was there?

The door pushed open easily under Russia’s hand and he looked at the dark room to where the bed lay. There was only a sliver of light seeping in from the morning outside, sending a stripe of cold gray across America’s stomach. He hadn’t moved, chest moving heavily and slowly in an attempt to stay both quiet and calm. Russia glanced towards the light switch, thinking for one moment of turning on the light, but stayed still in the room. There was no need to close the door behind him. The room smelled faintly of cedar from the sachets his sister had once left behind.

America’s arm was over his face, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes as he clenched his hand tightly. The corners of his lips were turned down, pressed tightly until they parted for a hitched breath. “I didn’t realize I’d slept in so long.”

Russia took a step closer. He didn’t say anything and just listened to the scratched and gravely quality of the younger nation’s voice. Fingers lifted up to adjust the small watercolor that hung crookedly as he looked away. “I did not realize you were still so hurt.”

“I’m not.” America hadn’t lifted his arm away, and the room fell back into silence. When Russia said nothing again, he added with fatigue, “I’m not, really.”

Russia turned to study America, watching with narrowed eyes as he took a long breath, choking on it near the end. “You need more pain medicine.”

“I don’t.” America was still on the bed, but flexed his fingers slowly as he balled the old quilt draped over him. His glasses sat on his chest near his throat, glinting in reflected light. Turning his head slightly, America looked away from his arm and to the darkened ceiling. “Really. I’m fine. Russia, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“It is only six,” Russia murmured back and came over to the bed, concern for the other man slowly filling him. “You’re never up before eight on a good day.”

“I am for meetings.” Alfred closed his eyes, head turned away from the crutches that lay in the corner of the small room.

“Nyet. You are not.” Ivan looked towards the door of the guest room. “What is wrong?” When Alfred did nothing he growled out, “I will take you back to the hospital if you do not tell me.”

That at least got a weak glare from America. His blue eyes were dark in the light, but encircled with red. Russia could not tell if it was from exhaustion or crying. “I told you, I don’t need any more of that stuff. Makes me loopy as it is,” America murmured, dropping his hand to his side. They were back to this argument again. He didn’t understand why the American was so against the pain medication.

“That still does not tell me what is wrong.”

“Because nothing’s wrong.” America frowned, matching Russia’s own. They continued to glare at each other before Alfred sighed and looked away again. Russia thought he looked old and listless in the gray light. “Look, I’m fine. I’m just… I’m fine.”

“Frustrated,” the older nation supplied. Russia’s eyes kept a steady gaze on America, watching every small gesture for clues. America had glanced up at the word and then looked away as if he didn’t have the energy to deal with Russia right now.

“Yeah.” He traced the corner of the quilt blindly. “You’ll think I’m just a kid. Look, I’m fine Russia. I’ll be out in a little for breakfast or whatever. Just, please leave me alone right now.”

“Nyet.”

“Russia, come on.” Alfred’s tone was neither playful nor gentle, but hushed and agitated. “Just go.”

“I will not.”

“Russia,”

“Alfred,” Russia cut off, pausing to wait for him to meet his gaze. He hesitated, the words sounding better in his own mind then spoken aloud. When his hesitation finally lost America’s attention once again, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and murmured quietly, “It’s okay. Everything will be fine.”

America stilled, not looking at him as Russia moved further onto the bed until they were nearly touching. He once again hesitated, but then huffed before sighing, “It will all be fine.” His fingers came out and brushed gently through golden hair as a calming movement. It was a childish gesture, but it felt right.

America was tense and still on the mattress of the bed. When Russia once again murmured to him, the young injured nation closed his eyes and let out a shuddered breath, throat tight from holding back tears of self directed anger and hopelessness.

The two men simply sat in the room, one brushing his fingers slowly through the others hair as the morning light grew stronger and became day.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

America watched the trees speed past the car window, ignoring the faint buzzing of panic that twitched under his skin. Bare trunks glistened with ice and snow in the pale evening light and he sighed, fogging the window and wrote his name along the glass quickly before it faded. America turned to Russia who was focused on the road, studying the other nation’s profile. “Where are we going again?”

“You will see,” was all Russia said. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips and America frowned, looking back to the quiet streets they passed through. If he didn’t know any better, America would say it was a mischievous smile. Years of studying his former enemy and recent friend had left him with a good guess of what the other man was feeling. When he was planning something, his lips would be pressed into a thin line, covering the traces of a smile, while his violet eyes would narrow in thought. Something like that was echoed in his features now and America crossed his arms.

He adjusted his glasses, startled by the realization he had been blatantly staring at Russia. He flushed and put his mouth petulantly into his hand. “Great. I just hope this doesn’t end with you trying to throw me into the river or something,” he joked. Russia remained silent, deigning him a small glance as he quickly looked away from the road. America cleared his throat.

Things had been going fine between them, until about a week ago when Russia had come into his room, soothing and reassuring him in a way that sure as hell didn’t feel completely platonic and had left their interactions fragile like breaking ice. There was something in the water below and he wasn’t sure if it was something bad or good. So they stood at the precipice and each day the cracks between them grew larger. And the crazy thing was that this was all over nothing.

Well, not nothing. There was something wrong, and he knew it was him. He couldn’t stop the dizzying spiral of panic when he wasn’t healing as fast as he had to. He needed to be back on his feet, back to his normal self. There wasn’t time for wallowing until the wave of self directed anger and frustration carried him out further to sea. He knew all of this would pass, and he’d be back to normal soon, but he couldn’t stop the feelings from catching into him like a hook and pulling until it was deep inside his skin. It didn’t fell good to heal. It felt ugly.

Metal clacked behind America and he glanced to the backseat where his crutches shifted from the car taking a left turn. Looking back to the front, he stared at the back of his gloved hands, falling back into thought. At least he could use those now; he didn’t have to worry about the wheelchair anymore. Once his arm had healed enough to support his weight it was hasta la vista, baby. He snorted, looking out the window again at the thought of shooting that damn chair while a smile crept up.

“You are quiet” Russia muttered, catching America’s attention once again and he blinked in confusion. The taller nation adjusted his grip on the steering wheel while looking to the rearview mirror.

“Oh, uh…I guess. Yeah.” Summer blue eyes shifted back to the winter bare scenery. He tapped his fingers against his knee and then glanced back to Ivan. “Are we there yet?”

“Nyet.” His lips quirked slightly, and he spared America a cool look before focusing back on the road.

“Will we be there soon?”

“Da, if you are patient.”

America sat higher in his seat, fiddling with his phone and then glanced back at Russia. “How about now?”

“Nyet. If you do not stop asking questions, I may be tempted to…what was the phrase…Ah, yes: feed you to the fishes.” He turned the car at the intersection and continued down a residential street, marked with swirling black lines from numerous crack repairs, victim to years of frost heaves.

Alfred snorted and shut his phone off. No emails of note. “Sleep with the fishes…Yeah, right. And that was Italian gangsters, by the way…but nice try. Besides, you love me too much!” he said cheekily, voice wavering at the end as his brain finally caught up to what he was saying. With a darted glance over the rim of his glasses he was relieved to see Russia just shrugged and continued to drive on in silence.

America resigned himself to the rest of the car trip being in silence and stared at the glove compartment when his heart beat a little too fast. Eventually Russia pulled into the parking lot of a large dark brown building. He shifted the car into park and pulled the keys from the ignition. “We are here.”

“And where is ‘here?’” America asked. He glanced out the window sizing up the situation.

“The recreational pool,” Russia replied and slipped out the driver’s side of the car. Alfred stared at the building and then watched him come around to his side. When he pulled the door open to grab Alfred’s crutches, he smiled and said brightly. “I promise. It’s not a secret testing facility. That’s next time.”

“Oh now he gets a sense of humor,” America muttered to himself as he swung his legs out of the car and took the crutches from Russia’s hands. “Just fucking peachy.”

“I have always had better sense of humor than you,” Russia muttered.

America shivered at the cold air leaking into the quickly cooling car and awkwardly clambered to his feet, pausing to make sure the crutches weren’t set up over ice and poised to have him fall on his ass. Russia’s hands were up, in a premature hover and America frowned. “Come on,” he said as he adjusted his stance once, letting his fingers tense over the padded handhold, “I’m freezing my ass off here.”

“Eloquent as always,” Russia said and shouldered a gym bag, eying America as he started his cautious trek towards the door. Russia held the door open for him and America took a deep breath of the hot chlorine infused air of the recreational pool. Ivan went to the front desk, showing an ID of some kind and then writing down something on a spreadsheet as Alfred waited awkwardly in the middle of the lobby. The sound of a whistle echoed from another room, followed by loud splashing. Alfred took a step closer to the wall, looking to the glass enclosed trophy case for what had to be the local swim team. He took another steep closer realizing the vent was pouring hot air there.

“Come on,” Ivan said as he walked to Alfred, holding the bag in his right hand this time.

“But it’s warm here.” He huffed as Russia simply turned towards the men’s locker room and hobbled behind him, scowling at how loud the crutches echoed through the lobby and white tiled locker room. They came to a stop near a long wooden bench and Russia put the bag down. “So mind telling me what we’re doing here again?”  
“Swimming.” America bit his tongue at seeing the amusement in the other’s violet eyes, but quietly sat down on the bench, gathering the crutches with a metallic clatter.

“I don’t have swim trunks with me,” America reminded.

“You are borrowing a pair of mine.”

“What.” The younger nation’s tone was flat and he stared at Russia in disbelief. When the other simply gazed back with a blank look, America pulled back. “What? No. No way.”

“What is the problem?”

“Dude, that’s like sharing underwear!”

“It is not. Stop acting like a child.”

“I’m not!” America rubbed at the bridge of his nose before glaring up at Russia standing over him. “It’s just weird!”

“People share clothes all the time. I do not see why you are making a big deal of it. They are clean. Either you can change and come with me, or you can sit in this locker room.”

America glanced around the muggy room, quickly bringing his gaze back to Russia’s knowing gaze. All that was in the room other then the lockers and the shower stalls were the old men changing or walking around. Damn it. “Fine. Give me them.” When Russia handed over a pair of navy blue swim trunks, the words finally clicked in America’s drug laden brain. “Wait, you’re swimming too?”

“It is good exercise. He shrugged his broad shoulders and began to unbutton his white dress shirt. “Besides, it will be good for strengthening your leg, da? It will hurt less to do so in the water.”

“Oh.” America looked over to the two changing stalls to see them occupied. Glancing back, Russia was ruffling though the gym bag, his shirt already off. He watched sinewy muscle shift with his motions and America flushed and coughed, looking to the white wall. Well, fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fidgeting on the bench, he watched the changing stall for it to open. After a few minutes, Russia asked, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for the changing stall…” America looked up to see Russia frowning slightly. He had folded the shirt and was in the middle of unbuckling his pants, but more important than that was the ever-present scarf was off. Alfred blinked, having never seen him without the beloved item around his neck. When Russia raised a brow, America realized he had been staring like an idiot and turned back to the wall. At least the wall wouldn’t get him in trouble or flustered.

Neither nation said a word and all Alfred could hear was the sound of rustling cloth. Russia finally huffed, “Would you just change?”

“What?” America said, taking off his glasses to wipe away the condensation building from the steam filled room, “No, I’m not changing in front of you.”

Russia scoffed as he rolled his belt and placed it in the bag with his other clothes. “I doubt there is anything that I have not seen before. Besides, there are only other elder men here.”

America rolled his eyes. Yeah, that was what he cared about. “Yeah, well I don’t feel like being on display.” He took off his jacket at least, along with his gloves. It was hot in the locker room.

Russia rolled his eyes and America frowned, chapped lips pressed in a thin line. “I doubt there is anything to put on display,” he finally said smirking.

Alfred’s glare darkened. “You, sir, are a jackass.” He huffed when all Russia did was shrug yet again and went to finish changing into his bathing suit. America turned to look back at the wall, pulling off his own shirt with a steady stream of grumbles and well placed curses. He left the fabric crumbled on the bench next to him and pulled off his pants in a mixture of a flurry of agitation and gritted slowness for his healing leg. Russia walked away to put their clothes into a locker as he put on the swim trunks, having to adjust the tie since his hips were smaller. At the thought, America growled and then grabbed his crutches, hoisting himself up with a grimace.

“You are staring again.”

America jolted; not realizing his gaze had been honed on Russia’s pale neck. Blue eyes darted to the tiled ground. He bit his lip and then looked back up at Russia. “Sorry. Guess I’m not used to seeing you without your scarf on or whatever.”

“Ah.” Russia padded alongside him as they made their slow way towards the lobby where the pool was connected, two towels tucked under his arm. “Sort of like you without your glasses.”

“I guess. I dunno, guess you were always hiding something under there.”

When Russia gave him a questioning gaze, America’s face darkened again and he looked away. “Never mind. Sorry. I’m saying stupid shit.”

“Nyet. It is fine.” They made their way to the pool, Russia holding the door for America as they passes through. Inside the vicinity were two pools, one where at least forty girls and boys were traveling through the lap lanes, some pausing at the ends to adjust their goggles or caps. There was another pool adjacent to it, where one elderly woman was slowly pushing her way through the water. The coach’s instructions and whistles blew off the walls and echoed throughout the large room.

Alfred laid the crutches down to get along the pools edge to slide in. As he tried to balance on one leg and a hand, he nearly slipped backwards. Rather than cracking his head on the tile though, he hit his head on Ivan’s thigh as he caught him. Glancing up, he finally fully took in the image of Ivan shirtless.

He was toned, but his muscles weren’t defined and there wasn’t a secret six-pack hiding under that coat all this time. His skin was pale and unmarked save for a few dark freckles near his left hip and the pink and white scars that came from being a nation. One trailed jaggedly near his heart, looking as though it had been stitched up. Dark blond hair dusted across his chest and down his stomach, getting thicker past his navel and Alfred looked out to the water, feeling the need to plunge into what was most likely cold water.

“Are you alright? You look dazed.”

“I’m fine,” America muttered as Russia set him down to sit at the water’s edge and dipped his feet into the water. “Just the medicine messing with my head again,” he lied. He pushed away from Ivan and plunged into the water, keeping one hand on the edge so he wouldn’t accidentally hit the pool floor with his leg. He stared out of a spotted world when he came back out of the tepid water and swore. Taking off his glasses, he reached up and offered them to Russia. “Can you take these? I forgot to take ‘em off.”

“Da.” Russia had an odd look on his face and America blinked before looking back at the pool, now a fuzzy blue blob without his glasses.

Alfred grabbed at the cold pool tile and concrete, stopping to breathe at the end of the lap lane. The hot chlorine filled air of the public pool filled his lungs as he moved to rest on his elbow and rub at his stinging eyes. Clearing his vision slightly, America squinted at the blurry shapes around him and glanced towards the other end of the pool where it looked like the swim team was getting out of practice. At least the constant yelling from the coaches and whistles had finally stopped.

In the lane next to him Ivan swam past, darting through the water as he continued his moderately paced freestyle laps. Alfred blinked, watching him head towards the other end of the pool quickly and with powerful strokes. On his right side of the lap lane, an old mousey looking woman bobbed by slowly, keeping her head out of the water despite wearing a large white swim cap. With a sigh and regaining his breath once again, Alfred ducked back into the water and pushed off with his hand.

He slowly swam down the lane, using only his arms to propel himself through the water with gently timed feeble bending of his knees. Alfred couldn’t help but admitting that Russia had been right. As much as he loathed to even be thinking that, it was true that swimming was doing him good. Sitting still was something he wasn’t good at. Even at meetings his leg would bob up and down out of either nervous energy or the need to move. With the cold water gliding past him as he continued to move through the lap lane, it was freeing almost. Like flying through the clearest sky. He didn’t dare a full kick yet—but at least it didn’t feel like needles in his joints when he bent his leg.

Tilting his head to breathe in more of the warm air, he blew a jet of bubbles out in frustration. He really hated being so dependent on someone else. It just didn’t jive with him at all and left a bad taste in his mouth. But he was thankful that Russia was allowing him to stay at his home. Truthfully, had he still been stuck in that drab grey hospital for therapy another day, he probably would have escaped or run away. America might not have made it far, but at least he wouldn’t have been in there.

As he thought more about his leg and the hospital and the whole situation in general, Alfred’s mind slowly began to waltz around the memory of that early morning not too long ago. He swore in the water, the bubbles rushing past his cheeks as he turned his head to breathe again, and frowned towards the bottom of the pool. Being emotional in front of others wasn’t something he liked to do, especially crying. And being emotional over something as stupid as his leg in front of Ivan was even worse.

But what had surprised him was that Ivan had sat on the bed with him and calmed him down and acted as though his tears were actually there for a valid reason. Which was weird because even though there was a flutter of liking that beat within his own chest, he hadn’t expected the other nation to be kind about it. Alfred touched the wall as he completed his lap and pushed both water and his bangs to the side.

Of course, maybe he was putting too much thought into it. 

As he rubbed the chlorine filled water away from his face, a hand tapped his bare shoulder. America flinched, nearly cracking his head into the edge of the pool and turned to look at Ivan.

“How do you feel?” he asked in English, violet eyes bright in the well-lit room.

“Uh, tired.” Alfred looked at the scuffed pool tile and held on tightly so he wouldn’t have to move his legs. “I haven’t been movin’ all too much, ya know?” He glanced back to Russia and hummed at the blurry face next to him.

“Your leg does not hurt?” Russia asked and furrowed his hand through his wet hair, pushing it to the side before grabbing the ledge and pulling himself out of the water.

“Nope. Not too bad,” America replied and looked up to Russia as he handed over America’s glasses. Smiling as his clear vision returned, he returned his gaze up at the other nation and raised a brow at the proffered hand. “I can get out of the pool,” he muttered.

Ivan retracted his hand, and Alfred stared at him as he gazed back coolly. A few seconds past as he continued to look up, noting his bare torso and long muscular legs and felt the heat creeping into his cheeks. “Can I help you?”

“I am waiting for you to get out.”

“Well could you move?” America smacked his hand against Ivan’s ankle and waited for him to step to the side. With a small sigh, Alfred gripped the edge of the pool, hoisting himself out and turning on the gritty concrete so he was in a sitting position with his feet still in the water. With another smile, Alfred looked up to Ivan who was standing close to his side, and gave him a thumbs-up. “See,” he said with slight ‘I told you so’ tone in his voice, “I can do it.”

Russia folded his arms, still looking down at America, and a small smirk turned his lips up. “Can you get up?”

At that Alfred considered hitting Ivan’s knees and knocking him into the water. “Shut up,” he grumbled and reluctantly held out his hand for help. Ivan’s calloused hand encircled his wrist and pulled him gently into a standing position before handing the crutches over. America gripped them, sliding them under his arms before adjusting his glasses and walking over to the nearby bleachers.

He took one of the towels sitting on the grey metal bench and sat down, quickly drying off before he got cold. Russia took the other towel and swiped at the beads of water rolling down his arms and chest, looking off into the distance where a few banners hung proudly. America paused with the towel over his shoulders, looking to the numerous scars on Russia’s back that could be found on almost any elder nation’s body. One particular prominent scar on his left shoulder blade caught his attention, looking fairly deep and newer than most of the other ones.

“What is that one?” America asked suddenly, hesitating at the end of his question as his brain finally caught on to how invasive a question that could be. Violet eyes turned back to Alfred and he felt his cheek grow hot in embarrassment. He put one hand up, turning towards where the lobby was. “You know what, just ignore me for the rest of the night. I keep saying stupid ass things. I’m shutting up now.”

Russia laughed behind him, his voice throaty in the low chuckle. “Do you always talk when you are nervous?”

“Uh, yeah.” America swiveled on his crutches and tilted his neck to stretch his shoulders. When Russia began to walk away, a smile on his lips, America huffed out, “Hey!” and slowly followed after him. The taller man slowed down though, and Alfred raised a questioning brow in response. It was bizarre to see an almost…protecting look on the other man’s face.

Bending to the right slightly, America rubbed his chin into the towel around his shoulders to get rid of an itch. At the same time, the crutch bearing his weight slipped on a puddle of water and America choked on his breath in surprise as he fell backwards. The air left his lungs as he crashed into a strong body rather than cracking his head on the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered and winced. In the act of falling back, he had accidentally put the full weight of his body on his leg and now the appendage was throbbing with a deep ache. He gritted his teeth and then stiffened as he remembered there was a reason he was not sprawled out on the tile floor below him.

Ivan’s arm was wrapped around him, and the taller man was looking down in surprise. His skin was warm, Alfred realized, and his wet hair was shadowing his eyes. With a cough, Alfred moved to stand up and immediately the secure arm and chest was gone, replaced by a single guiding hand as America scrambled to get back to the support of the crutches. Once he was no longer about to slip to his death, he glanced at Russia and adverted his eyes quickly, gritting his teeth in the pain that traveled through his bones.

“That’s two in a row today. These crutches are shit. Thanks”

“You are welcome.” Both nations stared at each other and finally Alfred began to make his way to the locker room quickly. Russia loomed a few steps behind him, and America could hear the other let out a small sigh.

Shit. That tingly feeling was something other than appreciation, wasn’t it? It might even be more than like, Alfred realized and darted a secret glance at Russia, watching his chest for a moment before focusing on not falling again. Well, he’d have to text his brother when they got back home, wouldn’t he? Maybe that tingly feeling was something crazy like Florence Nightingale syndrome or something like that.

Or maybe it was the flu. The flu messed with your mind and stomach and made you hot, right? With one last glance at Ivan as they entered the steamy locker room, the taller man walking towards the lockers and reaching down to the lower one their stuff was stored in, warmth stirred in his gut. Alfred turned and looked at the wall instead.

It had to be the flu.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Russia sat in his office, the tip of his black pen tapping slowly against the wood top of the desk as he read the report in his hands. A phone rang just outside his walls, disturbing the pleasant silence that had enveloped him. He brought the pen down, signing his name with thick black strokes and placed the paper down to let the ink dry. Russia sighed, rolled his neck, and looked out the window. Finally the day was over. Or it would be in about half an hour. He glanced at the unread papers and folders still on his desk and frowned.

It was nearly six, and Russia wondered what to make for dinner. America had surprised him by making dinner last night, having stopped by the grocery store with Samantha after a visit to the embassy to do some work and check in with his own boss. The slightly burned pan burgers were delicious, if only because of his amazement of watching America stand for incremental periods of time and move around the kitchen with a smile. They had been going to the pool nearly every day for the past two weeks, and even America had noticed the increase of strength and movement in his healing limbs.

His cell phone vibrated on the desk, snapping Russia out of his thoughts. He picked it up, pulling another file folder close to him with his other hand. America had texted him. Russia opened the lock screen to read the message.

**[From:] Alfred Jones**

Dnt come back 2 home

What was that supposed to mean? Russia dialed America’s number, tapping at the desk with his pen in a hard staccato beat. He frowned as he waited for him to pick up. It went directly to voicemail. His phone was off. The chair crapped back loudly as Russia stood up, looking at the text message again before turning to look out the window at the dusky purple sky. Russia dialed his own home number, but it too went unanswered. What was going on?

Russia grabbed his thick wool coat hanging in the corner of his office, pocketing the phone while turning off the lights. Something wasn’t right.

And with that realization that something wasn’t right came the clammy fears that rolled about his belly, sending out vivid and wild ideas. Violet eyes strayed to the floor of the office building, not looking at anyone as he mulled over the possibilities. Why would America have texted him something like that and then refuse to pick up? Or perhaps he was unable to pick up…Russia shook his head at the thought and pushed the doors leading outside open, frowning at the frigid air nipping at his face. He pulled his scarf closer around his face and slipped his gloves on. A pigeon cooed nearby, ruffling its gray and green feathers when Russia stepped too close.

He really had to stop listening to America’s ridiculous ideas. They were starting to rub off on him. After all…it wasn’t as if someone had broken into his home and taken America hostage in his weak state. At the thought, Russia looped up with narrowed violet eyes, finding his car quickly and looked to the sky as he rested his hand on the door handle. Signs of what was probably going to be sleet hung thick in the air, the clouds swollen with the promise of a storm. Stained gray, they hung oppressively in the air and blocked out even the smallest crack of blue skies.

The wheel to the car was cold when he slid in and Russia kept his gloves on, paying attention to getting the car started and on his way home while mulling over the scenarios in his mind.

What if America had passed out? Then why would he have texted him not to come home…perhaps he had set it on fire? No, that was ridiculous. Someone in the complex would have called him if that had happened. The pavement was slightly slippery and Russia let out a huff of frustration as he slowed down the car. There was no need to get into an accident.

He grasped the black knob on the dashboard, putting on the soft hum of music to fill the car and scatter the thoughts in his mind. He was getting too worked up over five ambiguous words. Knowing America, it could just be a practical joke. Russia slowed down as the light in front of him turned yellow, stagnating the traffic. The branches of trees clacked as the wind began to slowly gain strength from the oncoming storm. Tapping his index finger against the wheel, Russia stared blankly into the distance.

But he doubted that America would do something like that. He might be an idiot, and inconsiderate, and a child, and ridiculous…but he also was very careful over matters of safety and security. America would never cause a false alarm like that.

For the rest of the ride, Russia continued to waltz through his thoughts, wondering just what was happening and why America had sent a message like that. Of course, if it did end up being just a joke out of boredom, he would simply lock him into the closet for the duration of time Russia spent away.

As he pulled up into the driveway of the split mansion, Russia parked the car and killed the ignition, looking up at the house in quiet contemplation. There was nothing wrong with the house. There was even a light glowing in the window where his part of the house was. Getting out of the warm confines of the car, Russia slowly walked up to the house, opening the door and looking inside. There was nothing wrong there either. He began to ascend the stairs, glancing about the warmly lit hallway to see if there was anything out of place.

With every step reassuring him that there was nothing wrong, Russia frowned and narrowed his eyes with the small bloom of annoyance that became hot in his chest. America was going to be in a lot of trouble if he wasn’t in dire needs at this point.

There were no sounds of distress coming from his apartment either. Russia growled quietly, jabbing the key into the slot and opening the locked door quickly to reveal the quiet apartment. America was sitting in the chair facing the door, a scowl on his face as he looked down at the papers in his hands. A cup of tea was lying on the table next to him, judging from the aroma the living room held. As he stepped inside, Russia’s frown deepened. “Why did you text me?” he asked, seeing that America was not dying or gravely wounded. In fact he looked fairly comfortable.

Blue eyes flickered up, surprise and horror filling them before he whipped his head to stare at the kitchen and then back to Russia. “Why are you here?” he hissed out quietly, “Can’t you read?” America grabbed for the crutches resting against the wall.

Striding forward, Russia came to a stop in front of America and took the crutches out of his reach. America glared in annoyance while reaching out to take them back. Russia held them away glaring down and finally America sat back into the chair. “You did not answer me,” the older nation said.

“Keep your voice down.” America glanced back towards the kitchen while holding his breath, looking nervous. “And you should get out of here while she hasn’t noticed.”

“…She?” Russia asked, lowering the crutches enough that America snatched them back.

Opening his mouth to respond, America paused when a clatter of pots could be heard from the kitchen and Belarus’ voice rang through the apartment loudly. “Brother, where is your soup pot?”

Russia froze. America sighed and turned back in the chair and rested the crutches back against the wall. He pulled the blanket across his lap with a sigh while reaching for the Russian newspaper nearby. Shaking it open, he looked down at the black print. “Might as well sit down and chill, dude. I think sudden movements would be bad.” Turning the page he added in a quiet mumble, “Already nearly got stabbed for that.”

Russia sat down on the sofa, putting his head into his hands. America’s blue eyes looked thoughtfully from behind his glasses and he folded the paper up haphazardly. “You can still run, I’ll distract her somehow…” he was looking towards the kitchen again and Russia was close to taking up that offer when his younger sister came into the living room.

She patted down her dress and looked severely at Russia. “Isn’t it time we get married?”

Russia looked at America when he snorted and looked away to the bookcase. Belarus frowned pointedly at him and then turned back to her brother. “I thought you would be home later,” she said. “Dinner isn’t ready.”

“Ah, that’s fine.” He muttered weakly, glad she wasn’t pressing the marriage thing, having hopefully distracted by America’s derision.

“Why don’t you change? I will have dinner ready for the two of us soon.” She turned and walked into the kitchen. Russia remained silent as the apartment was soon filled with the sounds of vegetables being chopped expertly. Russia rubbed his hand over his face and then furrowed it into his hair. America gave a snort of laugher again, quiet enough not to bring back Belarus’ ire.

“Guess that means I’m not invited.” He wagged his eyebrows at Russia and licked his thumb, opening the newspaper with a loud crinkle of paper. “I’m gonna wither away.”

Russia chuckled and then sighed. “So that was what your text was for.”

“That’s what my text was for,” the America confirmed. He looked away from the paper with a frown. “I tried to warn you. I was all ready to sit here and spend the night listening to her yammer on.” Russia watched him touch his neck, swallowing quickly and letting his cheerful smile falter for a minute. “We got acquainted real quick and we came to agreement that she should talk and I should keep my mouth shut.” At that he gave another smile and gestured to the kitchen behind him. “She did make me tea, although I did ask for coffee. I call it spite tea. Want some?”

Russia shook his head. “She didn’t hurt you, did she?” A cool anger rumbled in his stomach at the thought.

“Nah. It’s not like I haven’t had her shove her knife in my face before.” America and Belarus never seemed to get along well with each other. Belarus didn’t like how loud his voice was or how animated he was. America just liked to be ‘an annoying little shit’ as Canada liked to say, and see how far he could push her buttons.

“How did she get in?” Russia asked as he sat on the edge of the couch. He had to get up and change, but he really didn’t feel like leaving.

America shrugged with one shoulder. “Dunno. I fell asleep after PT and when I woke up she was in here reorganizing your books.” America eyed the shelves critically. “I think she organized it by author instead of subject like how you had it.”

Russia smiled. There was a protective lilt to America’s voice as though he disapproved of her changing anything, even something so small as the order of books. “She may have taken a copy of my key. She has done this before.”

“You should get a deadbolt.”

Russia’s response was drowned by Belarus turning on the kitchen radio, a love song crooning in the background. The sound of onions hitting a hot pan left Russia thinking how hungry he was. “At least she is a good cook,” he muttered and stood up. It would take him a minute to find the sweater Belarus was looking for, that is, if she hadn't already dug it out of his closet and laid it out on his bed.

“I’ll take your word for it,” America muttered. He waived at Russia and returned to the newspaper. “Just smuggle me out some bread and water. Preferably not moldy?” He paused and looked at Russia critically. Protectively even, Russia realized with a start. “Unless you don’t want to be here. I’ll stop her from following you if you want to get out.”

The serious look in his eyes baffled him. “And how would you do that? You can barely walk.”

America gazed back evenly. It made Russia itchy. It lasted only a few seconds before the lopsided grin was back. “You run, I’ll trip her with my crutches. You get to the car. She murders me. Police detain her for my violent death while you make an easy getaway.”

Russia frowned. “That is not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No.”

“Oh come on,” America said.

“I thought it was funny,” Belarus called from the kitchen.

America turned to Russia and blanched. “Yeah, okay. Not funny.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Russia had left the comfortable living room with a sigh to change into whatever clothing Belarus had apparently given him once upon a time. America held the half read newspaper in his hand, haphazardly folded on the diagonal, and rested his chin against his half curled fingers with his other hand. Belatedly, America realized that the sounds in the kitchen had gone silent. A pot gurgled with what he thought might be simmering water, and he turned slightly, catching sight of Belarus watching him from the doorway to the kitchen.

“More tea?” He asked with a smile, letting the empty mug swing from his forefinger as he lifted it up. She narrowed her eyes. 

The sound of a door being opened stopped her from whatever she was about to say to him, and a satisfied smile fell into place. “Oh, brother, you look handsome.”

America turned to look at Russia who was watching his sister with a grimace, looking away to stare down at the mustard sweater. Large blue and green paisleys swam across the corduroy cotton. America stared and pulled his hand over his mouth before he snorted in laughter and sent Belarus after him. Russia tugged at the slightly too tight collar of the sweater and sighed. “When will dinner be ready?”

“About ten minutes,” she said, and America could hear the cheerful lilt to her voice. Russia perked up at hearing it and walked further into the room.

“Where did that come from?” America asked, still staring at the hideous sweater.

“I bought it for him in Paris,” Belarus said as she walked back into the kitchen, “In 1982. It brings out his eyes.”

“Paris?” America said when she was a safe enough distance away. “Paris?”

“Quiet,” Russia chastised, but he was grinning broadly. “I forgot where she got this thing from. I may have to wear it when I see France again.”

“Oh,” America snorted, the laughter from earlier streaming out with a gulped laugh. “Please let me have a camera. God, could you imagine his face?”

“I imagine it would be horrified.” Russia said as he sat down and lounged back into the sofa cushions, sitting across from America and facing the kitchen.

America laughed again, a genuine loud and brash thing that he tried to stop and nearly choked on it. He rubbed at his eyes and looked up at Russia, who was still watching him in amusement. “You know, I think I have something worse than that, though.”

“Really?” Russia said and quirked one brow high. “I find it hard to believe,” he stopped, looking concerned, and added, “That you could find something as nice as this. It was a gift.”

Smooth, America mouthed. “Of course not,” America said and leaned back into the armchair, ignoring the dull ache that was settling in his hips from not moving. “But I do have this great Hawaiian shirt.” America leaned forward and spread his fingers out, setting the scene. “Okay, so imagine this. It’s bright red, like tomato red, and it’s got crisscrossing banana leaves with what I think are supposed to be aqua dolphins, but I’m not really sure since they look more like potatoes.”

Russia laughs at the image and America settles back into the chair with a satisfied smirk. “Please, do wear that sometime.”

“Hell no. That thing will never leave the confines of my house. I’m never being seen in that thing.”

Russia frowned. “That is not fair.”

“Never said it was.” America smiled and then looked to the kitchen when Belarus tapped the pan with her spoon. He put a hand over his stomach and shrugged. “Apparently Burt Reynolds wore something like it, but I’ve seen a photo of it and I tell ya, it’s nothing like it.” He tapped the arm of the chair when his stomach growled, but didn’t let his smile falter. “Oh, I also have a fedora that’s this steel blue color with a black band and long white feather. Went with a zoot suit I borrowed from a guy.”

“Borrowed,” Russia repeated slowly.

“Yeah, borrowed,” America confirmed with a smile and rested his head against his hand again, satisfied. He had let his tone drawl out over ‘borrowed’ and knew he had piqued the other’s man interest. Now that he was treating it like a secret, he knew Russia would be focused on finding out more. He never liked leaving secrets alone. America stayed silent and when he offered nothing else, Russia crossed his arms.

“That sounds ugly.”

“It was the height of fashion!” America complained.

“Didn’t your people ban it? Too much opulence for war time?” Russia flashed a smile. The air was thick with cooked onions and potatoes as Belarus cooked and America ignored the second low growl of his stomach. He’d need tea again to pinch off the hunger pangs. He was sure he could sneak a bite to eat later when she went home.

America tilted his head, “You sure know a lot about obscure America fashion,” he ventured slowly.

Russia was about to respond when Bclelarus entered the living room, holding out a bowl full of what looked to America like beef stew and a side of something that looked like barley and something green. “I saw your neighbor earlier. Bring this down to her and I will set the table for the two of us?”

Russia stood and took the warm bowl from his sister. He glanced down and America shrugged. “Say hi for me!” He said.

Russia nodded and walked out of the apartment door. The door hadn’t even fully clicked close before Belarus rounded on him, trapping him in the chair. Her eyes glinted in the soft lamplight as she took a step closer, red lips moving softly as she whispered, “I know what you are up to America and I am warning you to stop it.”

“And what am I doing?” America let his face fall into a mask of boredom, placing the paper on the table and leaving both hands empty. He studied her curiously and in slight confusion from over the rim of his glasses as she narrowed her eyes.

“You are tempting my brother.”

“Tempting?” America asked, caught off guard by the accusation and the paring knife held steadily in her hand. “What–”

“Don’t lie to me, America. I can see how you’re nearly crawling up him. You’re trying to take him away with your whorish looks.”

Well. He hadn’t heard that in a while. He stilled and then leaned forward, closing the space between him and Belarus. A lazy smile curled up over his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it ‘tempting’,” he said salaciously and leaned back, licking his lips once. Belarus’ face was flushed red, although he couldn’t tell if it was in anger or in embarrassment. Really, he shouldn’t be messing with fire like this. He couldn’t exactly get away in his state, and Belarus was deadly even in a good mood. But it was just so much fun.

“You slut,” she gritted out. She paused and then narrowed her eyes. America could hear the fabric of the armrest groan as her fingers dug in. He continued to grin up at her, refusing to back down. Her eyes were cold and she smelled a peculiar mixture of soft floral perfume and the comforting and hearty scent of beef stew. She opened her mouth to say something, and gnashed her teeth at coming to another thought. “How dare you defile brother’s innocence?”

America’s grin grew wider. Oh, he was so dead. “I wouldn’t say that,” he purred and watched satisfactorily as the tips of her ears turned pink. “He sure didn’t show any innocence when we were on the table earlier.” America paused and stretched his shoulders in a slow seductive manner, forcing them apart. “Or the bedroom, or on the couch, or in the shower…”

She looked as if she were about to fly at him in rage and claw his eyes out until Russia’s voice floated across the room. “What about the shower?”

This time it was America’s face that flooded in color. He looked under Belarus’ arm and smiled at Russia. He was hoping Russia hadn’t heard him tell the obvious lie. “I was telling her it was too small. Man, really you need to get a bigger one that allows more room.” America leaned back, still trapped by Belarus and he laughed and rubbed the back of his head. He couldn’t help himself though, and America had glanced at Belarus while emphasizing ‘more room’. If looks could kill he’d already be lying in a coffin.

Russia came into view again, frowning. “Did you turn off the stove? I think I smell something burning.”

Belarus stepped away from America and hurried into the kitchen. America sighed inaudibly and looked up, face still warm at seeing Russia’s intense gaze still resting upon him. He shook his head and America gripped his fingers tightly in a ball, keeping his gaze on the coffee table with a feigned smile and watched Russia take a seat near him from the corner of his eye.

“I do not know what you were talking about, but she was ready to attack you,” Russia mumbled quietly.

“Oh, you know. Girl stuff,” America deflected and smiled brightly at Russia’s weak glare. There was a loud clatter of bowls as Belarus pointedly set the small table in the kitchen. It was only big enough for two. America waved his hand when Russia tore his gaze away from the kitchen and sent a questioning look to the chair bound American. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, not moldy bread please? It always upsets my stomach. And if you could pass me that green book on the shelf– yeah that one– no, I said green. Yes.” America took the tome out of Russia’s hand and looked brightly at the English language book, thumb sweeping over a familiar notch in the spine and paused. “Didn’t I give you this to borrow?” he asked curiously.

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that like…” America paused and stared t the cover before opening the book and looking at the first few pages inside. “This is from 1910. I think that’s when I lent it to you.”

“I have been meaning to read it,” Russia replied dryly. America looked up. “I have not yet found the time.”

“In over a hundred years?” America said and flipped through the pages. “You’ve definitely got some library fines waiting for you.”

Belarus called out in Russian that dinner was waiting and Russia sighed.

“Why do you put up with her?” America blurted out and when Russia looked away quickly from the kitchen to America, the younger man added, “I mean, all she ever does is cause you grief. You’re terrified of her and you sorta just put up with it.”

“She is my family.” When America stared back blankly, Russia crossed his arms and shrugged. Their voices remained quiet so Belarus wouldn’t hear. “I do love her, in a sister way and one I would not want to marry, and though she may be…”

“Psychotic?” America supplied.

“Difficult,” Russia amended and tilted his head. “She is family and there are many things we have faced together. She can be very sweet when she is not trying to kill someone or attempting to force me to marry her.” Russia fell quiet and America looked over to the kitchen. “I will make sure you get some food soon. And painkillers as well.”

“I didn’t say I was in pain,” America said and turned to watch as Russia walked to the kitchen.

“You’re eyes are tight and your hand hovers over your knee. You can ask me for it, you know.”

“Didn’t want to make you go into the kitchen,” America lied lamely, blindsided at the fact that Russia knew what little gestures to watch for. It made something in his chest twitch uncomfortably.

“Of course,” Russia said lowly, his cello like voice carrying over the room before he slipped out of sight to join Belarus.

America turned back around and looked back at the book in his hands. He fumbled with the pages, turning through them briefly before settling further into the chair and tried to alleviate the dull pain along his leg from sitting too long. America opened the book as Belarus’ silken laugh rolled out, languid like a valley stream and he huffed to the pages in front of him.

Whatever.

America kept one ear out during their dinner for any sound of struggle, but found the hostile dinner was mostly filled with jokes and memories peppered in with some gossip. At one point Russia came out with a warm bowl of whatever the stew was and passed it along to him on his way to the bathroom. America wolfed it down, begrudgingly admitting that Belarus was actually a kick-ass cook. Russia gave him a tired smile when he walked past again and America cocked his brow, spoon childishly in his mouth. Their conversation quieted and it left him to read his book, flipping through the pages at the well-loved story. He always did have a soft spot for _Call of the Wild_.

The sound of the sink along with the loud clinking of glass called an end to their meal and America turned to watch Russia bring the dirtied kitchenware to the sink to start cleaning. Belarus stood closest to the door, blocking Russia from his sight while she dried all of the items. By now America had to stand up and move, hip groaning at inactivity and sighed, grabbing for his crutches and pulling himself off of the comfortable armchair.

He stood for a minute, letting his weight settle over the pads of the crutches and slowly began to maneuver away from the living room. Little tendrils of pain curled down his leg and America swore quietly. He choked on it when he looked up and noticed Russia standing only a few feet away, looking concerned. “Let me get you your medicine,” he said and walked away to the bathroom.

America opened his mouth to protest and promptly shut it when he noticed Belarus standing to his side, watching her brother’s retreating back. “How was your dinner?” he asked weakly, the bravado of earlier slipping away.

She did not turn to look at him, but a smile pulled at her lips. “Delectable.”

Russia returned with a frown, holding an empty bottle in his hand. “We are out. I forgot to bring up the newest bottle from the car.” He looked at the two of them warily. “I can go get it?” he ventured, looking to America.

“Of course, brother. We will wait here,” Belarus said and took a seat on the couch.

The two men shared a look and America weighed whether he would need the over the counter pain medicine. He nodded once and Russia nodded back. “I will be back in a moment.” He pulled on his coat and walked out the door.

The silence that filled the apartment was stifling. Belarus sat primly on the edge of the couch, watching America intensely and pulled her hair back over her shoulders.

“Shit.” America said.

Russia’s sister gave him a flat look and fingered the paper edge of the book America had left on the coffee table. She gazed darkly at America. Her eyes flickered down and America felt the smallest hint of a blush as she looked at his legs and crutches and then stared at the entryway. “I don’t like you,” she said.  
“Oh. Uh, okay.” Well, nothing new there. America began to mash the crust of the bread together until it was paper-thin. 

“And I don’t like you being near brother.” Her nail tapped loudly against the book.

Scratching his neck, America turned to look at the kitchen. To be honest, he was still hungry. But he knew there was some rye bread to nibble at. He tried to decide if it was better to wait for Russia to return or to hobble over into the kitchen. Belarus stood up, taking a step forward and standing too close to America. He jolted back on the crutches and found his back to the wall. The edge of a picture frame dug uncomfortably into his shoulder. America was trapped.

“I do not know what game you are playing with brother,” she said, her voice low and calm. 

“What games?” America snapped back, frowning at her looming presence. 

“Don’t be stupid. I see how his eyes and voice changes when he talks about you. It wasn’t always so noticeable. So I am warning you to stay away, slut.”

America continued to stare at her, wondering just what she meant. “What the hell are you talking about?” he finally spluttered. It wasn’t always so noticeable? When her eyes narrowed and she took another step closer so their faces were too close, he scowled lightly and met her stare. The front door opened and Belarus jerked back. And then the world went whirling away into hot white.

Belarus had crashed into his crutch, which had sent it slipping and slamming into his still healing leg. His head bowed down as he instinctively pulled inwards to recoil from the needle sharp pain that sparked around his shin. Vaguely he could sense that Belarus had pulled away and was hovering near him, was saying something, but the pain engulfed his senses. He was blinded and deafened by it.

Strong fingers wrapped around his arm and straightened him up and half pulled him over to the couch only a step or two away. America’s leg throbbed again and he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Again, someone was talking, but he ignored it in favor of Slowly taking a breath. He could hear his heart in his ears as Russia and Belarus talked, both speaking shortly in Russian, before the front door shut and the room fell silent. America blearily opened his eyes and looked up at the white ceiling while the world swirled back into its place and he clutched his leg to sooth the spot the crutches had hit. “Fuck,” he groaned and shut his blue eyes once again. After a moment of gently rubbing the now throbbing area, America slowly took another breath and looked out to see who had left.

Russia was eye level with him, sitting back on his haunches and hand holding onto the empty patch of the sofa near America’s leg. He stayed silent while waiting for America to catch his breath again. The corner of America’s lip was swollen from biting down and not letting the stream of swears erupt from his mouth. He wanted to get back to bed, shove his face in a pillow, and wait for the throbbing to stop.

“Are you okay?” Russia asked quietly.

America nodded, not trusting his voice to not waver. Damn it! He had been having a good day too! Just once he hadn’t felt like an invalid, and despite Belarus showing up out of the blue, he hadn’t been in any horrible pain. He just wanted to go one full day without feeling like an emotional and physical wreck.

“Belarus said it was an accident,” Russia said. He paused and tacked on, “She apologized, but I don’t think you heard. I asked her to leave.”

America frowned. He blinked and realized his eyelashes were wet. “Yeah, it was an accident.” Didn’t mean he wasn’t mad at her, though. Russia relaxed a bit and then looked down to America’s leg, who was still clutching it tightly. America pulled his hand away when Russia’s came near, ghosting over the fabric of his pant leg. America frowned and pushed one hand roughly through his hair. Damn it, why did he always end up such a wreck around Russia? He must seem weak and a liability in the other man’s eyes. Why hadn’t he healed yet? His leg throbbed as if to taunt and remind him how much of an invalid he still was and America gritted his teeth together sharply.

Two cold hands gently grasped at his ankle and knee, and America gasped, instantly jerking away in both surprise and at the difference of temperature. However, Russia’s cool and gentle hands kept a firm hold, stopping America from injuring himself further. 

“Wh-“ America started and looked at Russia in confusion. 

“If your leg was hit I must take a look at it.” He looked up at America while raising his brow and then frowning lightly. “You will have to move down. Lie along the couch”

“Uh, okay.” America awkwardly shuffled along the couch, resting his head to one end and Russia helped his stretch his other leg out. He huffed out a call of distress when Russia sighed and grabbed him by the hips, pulling him close to him. 

“You take too long,” he offered as an explanation and glanced down at his leg. He seemed to hesitate and then shook his head, loosening his scarf slightly. America watched with increasing nervousness and wariness as Russia knelt on his knees, gently pulling America’s foot and ankle close to him and carefully began to prod with cool deft fingers. “I am looking for breaks,” Russia murmured, not meeting America’s somewhat panicked gaze, and continued to diligently prod. Face growing hot for some reason, America looked back to the ceiling, putting his hand over his face and waiting for the shock of pain that was sure to come. 

The fingers continued to dance over the bones of his ankle and then moving gently over both his calf and shin. A few second trickled by and Russia asked quietly, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” America responded in a tight voice. 

“Cover your eyes all the time.”

America blinked and peaked from the edge of his fingers. Violet eyes looked back impassively before returning to watching the leg in his hands. Biting his lip, America frowned and quickly winced as Russia’s fingers strayed too close to the spot where is crutches had collided. With a hiss of air, he tried to pull back, but Russia’s hands stayed firm and kept him in place. Russia’s hands were warmer now as he pulled up America’s pant leg and he gently brushed over the pink scars that twisted around his leg and ran down his shin in a bold and garish line. “I need to check if it fractured again or not.” He paused and America looked back to the ceiling. “I will be gentle.”

“Well that’s great. And here I thought you were gonna hit me with a baseball bat,” he muttered sarcastically. America turned his head to look at the coffee table, anywhere else but Russia’s thoughtful violet gaze. He could hear a hum of a laugh in Russia’s voice before the room fell back into silence. America traced the dark shadows slathered on the floor, trying to make patterns or images in the grains of wood in the floorboard. His throat tightened as Russia barely pressed down along the center of his tibia and bit sharply on his lower lip to stop any sounds from escaping. Russia’s fingers paused and pulled away and for a moment America tried to relax.

“You never said why you do that,” Russia reminded him, resuming his investigation and moving further up America’s leg. He began to prod at his knee, gently taking a hold of his thigh and ankle to slowly test the joint.

America muttered under his breath, mixing quickly between swears and unintelligible sounds. The room stayed quiet and outside the voices of Russia’s neighbors heading to work floated past the window. “Because I don’t like it,” America gritted out, nearly inaudible. 

Russia stopped in his movements and placed both hands gently around America’s calf. “What?” 

America looked down at the floorboards, feeling the sudden onslaught of fire scorching his face. He turned sharply when he heard Russia say simply, “You are embarrassed.”

“No,” America said indignantly. 

“It is okay if you are.”

“I said I wasn’t!”

“You seem to be.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ah, someone is defensive!”

“I’m not embarrassed, damn it!” America perched on his elbows to end a glare at Russia, blinking at the smile on the other nation’s face. “What?” America snapped after a second. 

Russia shook his head and continued to trace his fingers along America’s bare leg. “Nothing.” America looked down to the sheets balled in his hand as Russia’s face grew more somber. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he added softly.

America bit at his lower lip again and turned both eyes up at the ceiling, still unable to really meet Russia’s gaze. He felt hot, both on his cheeks and inside his stomach, which left him hyper aware of all the cool and tingling spots the other man’s fingertips left across his leg. America’s chest felt tight and his body stiffened as Russia’s hands traveled back down towards where his leg was radiating in pain. He huffed, hating how hoarse his voice sounded, and muttered, “I don’t like being seen as helpless.”

“You are not helpless,” Russia said with a frown. 

“I can’t even get around!” America countered, the visceral anger at his immobility snaking out. “I can’t do a damn thing anymore without my leg throbbing.”

“But you are getting better,” Russia replied, finally meeting America’s pained blue gaze. America looked away.

“It hurts the most here, doesn’t it?” Russia said as he looked back down to the leg in his grasp. When America nodded, he hummed and placed his palm over the hot skin and pressed down. At the pained catch of breath from the younger nation, Russia pulled his hand back and shook his head. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

America gave him a dark look as thanks for the additional pain. “I figured.”  
“But you should not walk on it for a little. I think it will bruise and it will be tender. I will also get you ice.” Russia pulled away, though his hand continued to rest comfortingly on America’s ankle. 

“Great. Another thing to add to the list.” America frowned at his leg, feeling the aches of his body more acutely as he thought of an additional bruise on his body. Because, you know, it wasn’t like he had enough scars from the crash or blotchy bruises under his arm and ribs from the crutches. 

“It will heal soon” Russia rubbed at the back of his neck and looked towards the door. 

“Yeah,” America laughed joylessly. “But those who knows if those scars are ever going to disappear.” Because that was the thing with healing: sometimes the scars stayed and sometimes they disappeared.

“And that would be a problem?” Russia asked and stood up.

America flushed. Russia had to think he was being pathetically whiny now, but all of the things that had been lying on his chest like a stone were slowly being chipped away and he felt a little better saying it. “They aren’t exactly beautiful. They don’t even have a badass story to make up for it.”

“They are not hideous either,” Russia countered.

“Sweet of you to say, but you don’t have to feel compelled to lie.”

“I am not lying.” He leaned over and touched America’s leg again. Russia’s thumb traveled along the vines of puckered skin, studying the pink and sensitive scars.

America’s laugh was a little too tight. How could the scars not be hideous? He thought they were. “Like I said, sweet of you to say. They feel hideous and I feel hideous. Perfect match, I guess.”

Russia shook his head. “You are not hideous,” and before America could counter and call him out on the obvious lie, Russia’s head dipped down and with red cheeks, kissed the more garish of the scars. 

Baffled by the cool lips, America felt the words in his mouth dry up and turn to dust at the same time as his face bust into flames. And just as suddenly as the kiss had happened, Russia pulled back and swept out the door, all the while muttering about ice as his cheeks remained a deep red and his violet eyes continued to look away. 

Wait, what had just happened? America hit the back of his head against the sofa arm and dug the tips of his fingers into his skin across his face. His stomach knotted and rolled similarly to all the times at the pool and he could feel the trace of the kiss like electricity snaking along his skin. 

“Shit,” he whispered to the empty room


	16. Chapter Sixteen

“You need to go outside.”

America stopped his forkful of stewed carrots halfway to his mouth, looking up in confusion. “Huh?”

Russia was leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, looking outside. The world was finally thawing and even the sky seemed warmed with marshmallow clouds, toasted by the dying light of the day. “Outside,” he said dryly, turning his violet gaze to America. “Where the sun is?”

America scowled, lowering the fork. “I know what the outside is, thanks.” He dumped the carrots perched on the fork and pushed them around on the plate. “I do leave the house, you know. You see Samantha all the time. And we go to the pool.”

Russia shrugged, the ribbed wool of his black turtleneck rubbing against the wall. “Fresh air will do you good. We should go for a walk.”

America looked out at the window. “It’s almost dark.”

“The streets have lights.”

America scowled and looked back at the remnants of his dinner. “I’m still eating,” he added.

“You can heat up the one carrot you have left on your plate when we get back,” Russia said. He folded his arms, and America glanced away, cheeks hot as thoughts churned.

In the past two days this was the most conversation they’d had since, well…since a really awkward and sudden kiss that had left America reeling. He hadn’t said a word and Russia hadn’t said anything either. He could almost believe he hadn’t felt cool and gentle lips brush against the heated pain of his leg, had Russia somehow managed to avoid interacting with him. Which was a feat, seeing how small the apartment was.

“My leg hurts,” America muttered lamely, scrounging for an excuse. Which wasn’t untrue. He had a bruise from where Belarus had crashed his crutch into his leg. But equally hurting were his hips from not moving.

Russia glanced at his leg and America watched his eyes darken and the skin around his eyes tense as he contemplated something. America pushed at the carrot, looking down at his plate again. “We will be short. Down to the park and back. It will only be ten minutes, give or take.”

America grumbled to himself and added, “It’s too cold!”

“Well,” Russia said dryly, “it is a good thing we have things like coats and scarves.” He pushed away from the wall, walking out of the kitchen, “It will be much colder once the sun goes down, we should go now.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a sarcastic little shit?” America called out after him, craning his head to watch Russia pad out of the kitchen and then turned back to his plate, stabbing the lone carrot and chewing on it glumly. He stood, pushing himself up slowly from the kitchen table and hobbled slowly to the sink to put the dish away. He grabbed his crutches and held onto them tightly as Russia came back, fixing the collar of his overcoat and held out America’s jacket.

America frowned as he grabbed it, threading his arms into the sleeves and tucked the crutches under his arms as he followed Russia out. The stairs was a slow descent and Russia followed behind him. America almost expected to turn around and see him with his arms outstretched to stop him from tumbling down. As if America didn’t do this all the time at this point. America frowned and bit the inside of his cheek to stop from commenting.

Something inside him knew he was being pissy and it wasn’t over the walk. He didn’t really care.

When they made it downstairs and to the front doors, the mellow light of the sunset blinded him as a cold gust of wind threaded through the seams of his clothes. “I thought it was warm today!” America complained, rubbing his arms as he leaned onto the crutches. Russia closed the door behind them and looked up at the sky.

“It was, the night is bringing the North wind with it.”

“Great. Let’s just get this walk over with.”

“Hold on,” Russia said and America stopped when Russia looped a scarf around his neck. “You will freeze without it.” It was scratchy brown wool that smelled like cedar and Russia. America pulled it closer, nodding his thanks. He watched Russia, noticing him frozen as though about to say something, and then like a flicker of candlelight, the moment was gone and he walked up the path and led them to the park.

The walk was quiet save the taping of his crutches and the occasional drone of a car that drove by. Wind rustled the leaves still clinging to the skeletal limbs of trees. Wood smoke drifted lazily on the cold wind and America bunched the scarf close enough to his lips he could feel condensation cooling wetly on the fabric.

“You are shivering like a little rabbit, it is though you have never been outside in the cold,” Russia said. America’s head shot up from where he had been staring at the ground, avoiding the gray patches of ice that still glistened on the cement.

“I told you it was cold!” America griped, still walking forward despite Russia pausing to watch him. He passed him and huffed, “What a freaking weird thing to compare to, by the way.” He swung forward with his crutches. “Little rabbit. Can you stop saying weird shit?”

Russia chuckled and America’s ears burned. He fell to America’s left and they slowly walked up the street. The streetlight flickered on by the time they came to the end of the street and stood at the dark mouth of the park. Russia stepped forward and America frowned. “You said to the park and back!”

“Just a little through the park,” Russia said as he stood by the iron gates.

“But it’s cold!”

“We will only be a minute or two.”

“It’s dark.” America complained and peered into the park. He could only see a pair of grayed benches near the bend in the path. The rest was submerged in the thick shadows of twilight.

“I doubt there is anything in there more monstrous than us.” Russia waved his hand, a gentle and easy motion and walked past the gates. “Standing still keeps you colder. Come on, we will be home soon.”

America’s cheeks burned with the cold and he followed Russia, listening as the hard taps of his crutches ebbed into the grating and grinding of stones as the path became gravel. As they turned down the path, lamplight threaded through the trees and dappled the ground in amber. America stopped as they rounded the path and Russia walked towards a silent bronze fountain, the water gone as it waited for summer’s thaw. A bench was hidden in the fountain’s shadow and Russia sat down, patting the empty space next to him. America sighed and hobbled forward. He sat down heavily, causing the wood slats to bounce a little and he hissed out a relieved sigh and leaned back, stretching his aching leg out in front of him.

“Does your leg hurt?” Russia asked, his eyes crinkled in concern. America shook his head and looked at the fountain, kneading his knuckles against the ache threading his muscles.

“Nah, not really. No more than normal.” He rubbed some warmth around his knee and then leaned back. He glanced at his fingers: white with the cold. The distant lamplight illuminated the puffs of his breath. They stayed there in silence and America fidgeted, wondering when they would head back. The sun was finally dipping below the horizon and the night draped purple silk shadows all around them.

Lights twinkled, turned on suddenly, and illuminated the bare trees and tall bushes encircling them. America stopped rubbing his fingers together and gazed up in awe at the illumination. It was a thousand stars lassoed down from the sky and the ivory light now encompassed them. America turned to Russia who smiled and he bumped his shoulder, turning back to the lights.

“Don’t tell me you did this,” America said.

“No,” Russia admitted. “The park does this every fall and keeps them on each night until mid spring. Then they use spot lights to show off the foliage and flowers.”

“Good, it’d be weird if you did that for me or something.”

“You think highly of yourself if you think I would go through so much effort just for you,” Russia said. America thought it was supposed to be teasing, and maybe even a few months ago it would be said with derision. And yet, now.

Now.

America turned and looked to Russia, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I kinda do.” America said and chuckled. “I’m a really good catch, you see.”

“Oh?” Russia said and finally turned his gaze to the lights around him. “You complain about the cold all day long, about the shows on TV, about the food and music with every breath and this makes you a good catch?”

“Yep,” America said and smirked. He ginned and breathed on his cold knuckles. He really should have grabbed some gloves. So much for a quick walk.

“Are you cold?” Russia asked.

“Yeah, my fingers,” America said and flexed his hands, looking at the white skin. He looked up when he felt Russia’s coat suddenly draped across his shoulders. “Wait–”

“The cold does not affect me,” Russia said and shrugged. America halted in his readiness to argue, the warmth of the second coat already seeping into his shoulders and instead drew the coat closer, dipping his fingers into the sleeves and out of the cool night.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You are welcome.” Russia leaned back against the bench and looked up to the sky. Stars mimicked the park below them, shining clearly through the spaces the sparse clouds left. America tipped his head back as well, looking up at the space above them. It could be like floating. But he was weighted down with warmth in his chest and the bitter cold against his cheeks and the very real and warm body next to him. The sleeve of the coat draped over his shoulders slipped down, pooling in the small space that separated them. America eventually looked away from the stars and back to the park around them. To Russia’s eyes.

He young and brittle at the same time, as his knee twinged with inactivity and the cold. His eyes traced along Russia’s jaw, and he looked down to where his fingers were pooled inside the coat.

“Should we go?”

America looked up, lost in his own thoughts and unable to catalogue what had been said. “Huh?”

Russia tilted his head, rubbing the back of his neck against the crick that must have developed from peering up at the night sky. “We are out here longer than I thought. We should get back. I can make us coffee to warm up.”

“Oh, uh.” America nodded. Couldn’t help feeling reluctant. “I guess.” It really wasn’t that cold out. Now that the wind had died down. Now that he was sitting, surrounded by lights, by his own thoughts. By warmth.

Russia stood up, and America blinked at the hand proffered.

And it suddenly clicked that he was angry not because of the kiss. But because it had been the smallest of pecks, and brushed aside and not spoken of. Like it was a flower budding and ready to bloom and here they were with shears to trim it back and cut it off.

He didn’t want that.

“Alfred?” Russia asked when he didn’t move.

America let his crutches slide away and fall to the ground with a clatter. Russia frowned and America gripped his hand. Pulled him down. They were so close as Russia braced his hands against the back of the bench, hot breath ghosting across America’s nose and cheeks. His eyes, wide in surprise, were illuminated by the soft ivory of the lights in the trees. He stayed silent, watching America closely.

America moved his hand to Russia’s shoulder, watching him carefully, for a hint of anger or disgust and said, “You can’t just kiss and not do anything for two days, you idiot.” And then his fingers were threaded in Russia’s soft hair as he pulled him down those final inches, until their lips pressed together in a kiss. His skin was cold and America fingers moved in his hair again, feeling Russia press forward as they kissed gently. His knee was suddenly at America’s side, half standing, half straddling him. America’s mouth parted, in a silent question. He answered, and America thought he tasted like the sweet and bitter tea he had been drinking earlier.

Russia brought a hand through America’s hair: pulling and tipping his head back, and he wondered if there would be anything left but their fire and the burning starlight above. They parted and Russia gazed down at America. He put a cold hand to his cheek. “I think we should go home now,” he whispered.

“Good idea,” America whispered back.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

They had walked back from the park languidly, as America couldn’t rush despite how warm he felt in his chest and how much he yearned to be back in Russia’s apartment right that second. He had stolen glances at Russia the entire walk home, cataloging the way his face looked in the low light of the street lights, the sight of his broad shoulders in front of him as he checked the path for snow, and the warm tone his voice held since they kissed. He wondered what it would be like to hold his hand as they walked, and the metal of his crutches felt even colder. 

They made it back to apartment faster than their walk to the park had taken, and America walked up the stairs without help. Russia walked ahead, opening his apartment door before America got to the top. They walked inside silently and both men stopped in the center of the apartment, looking at each other as the other stood unmoving. America let out a puff of breath, smiling at Russia’s quizzical look. “Do you think we can make this more awkward? I think we need to raise the level a bit.”

Russia laughed lowly and America felt his stomach flutter. “Take off your winter clothes first, I’ll hang them up.”

“People normally take me out for dinner first before asking me to take my clothes off,” America said automatically. A blush crested his cheeks and he laughed awkwardly. “I mean–“

“I normally do,” Russia said. He gave a small smile and held out his hand for America’s coat and scarf. America slid out of his outer garments and handed them over, watching Russia walk over to the hall closet before turning to the couch and sitting down. He was sure his face was red now. Russia came back, sitting on the other end of the couch. There was plenty of space between them. 

America chuckled and leaned back on the cushions. “How long have we known each other? You’d think we’d only just met with the amount of awkwardness right now.”

Russia frowned, “I think that makes it harder, really.”

“Do you not–“ America stopped and shook his head, “I mean, if you don’t–“

“No,” Russia countered hastily. He sighed and tilted his head, looking at America fondly. “You don’t make this easy. You never do.”

America frowned and watched Russia get off the couch, moving around the apartment and disappearing into the kitchen. He listened to a drawer being pulled out and rummaged through as he turned his gaze down to his legs and began picking off fuzz from his pant leg. “What does that mean?”

Silence met his question and he looked up when Russia came back into the living room, stopping in front of the mantle. America listened as a match was struck and felt his cheeks warm up more. “Are you seriously putting on mood lighting?”

Russia turned, his own cheeks now red. “Is it too much?”

America stared at him, tongue heavy and heart beating erratically. “No, it’s,” he cleared his throat and murmured, “it’s nice.” When Russia finished lighting a few candles on the mantle he paused by the light switch. America laughed, “Come on, it’s going to be morning before we kiss again at this rate.” The lights went out and the warm apricot glow of the candlelight illuminated the room instead. Russia walked back over to the couch and America caught his cold hand, stopping him from sitting at the far end of the couch. He moved his own legs gingerly and pulled Russia to sit by his side. Russia moved around a bit, slowly and thoughtful not to bump against America until they were pressed up against each other’s hips and Russia was leaning against America’s shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” America replied truthfully. “Yeah, this is fine.” He watched Russia’s eyes gleam in the low light and he smiled. America traced the seam of his own pants, needing something to keep his hands busy. He stilled when he felt Russia’s hand come up against his own, stopping him from his nervous movements. His fingers were still cold and America looked down to their hands, trading their fingers together before squeezing them gently. Russia squeezed back. America rested his head against Russia’s shoulder. “Your hands are still cold.”

“Sorry,” Russia muttered. Alfred could hear the soft whisper of his hair rubbing against the cushions as he turned to look at America. America still looked at their interlocked fingers. “How does your leg feel? Do you need any medicine?”

America shook his head. “No, I’m okay.” He rubbed his thumb over Russia’s knuckles and then pulled away, leaning against the arm of the couch. He pulled Russia down and kissed him. It started off chaste, just the press of lips together and America pulled away, looking up at Russia. “Is–“ he started, about to ask if everything was okay, when Russia framed his face with his fingers, thumb trailing down his jaw for a moment before leaning in and kissing him again. In the dark their noses bumped together and America huffed. Russia apologized quietly, a half murmured thing before their lips press together again. It’s closemouthed, but it’s sure and gentle and purposeful all at the same time. America shut his eyes and could smell that woodsy scent that seemed to linger on all of Russia’s clothes. Not quite cedar, not quite pine. He reached up and trailed his fingers through his soft hair, pulling him closer. Unable to let him go. 

Russia’s hands didn’t roam America’s body since he was holding himself up, bracketing his hand on the couch cushion below and the arm rest next to America’s head. He left room between them and America pulled back, looking up at Russia. He must have noticed the question in America’s eyes because he said, “I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Russia,” America said. He didn’t berate him for the thought, although the words were quick on his tongue. I don’t break easily, could have been said, but, well, he was already broken, wasn’t he? America smiled and looped his arms around his neck. “Hold on.” He fidgeted, pulling his better leg up and stretching out along the length of the couch. His bad leg dipped down to the floor, leaving a strain on his hips, but enough room for Russia to settle between his thighs and not have to worry about hitting his leg. “Okay?” He asked. 

Russia frowned. “That doesn’t hurt?”

“No,” America said. He stretched up, pecking Russia’s stubbled jaw. “I’m fine. Now, kiss me.”

Russia chuckled, leaning down and their bodies nearly pressed together. He still held himself up, but there was far less room between him now. America could feel the heat from his body against his skin. “So bossy,” Russia said. 

“I know what I want,” America said with a wink and tucked some of Russia’s hair behind his ear. 

They kissed again, harder this time and more sure. America ran his hands along his back, against the nape of his neck and entwined into his hair. He tugged Russia’s pale blond hair and felt his gasp against his mouth. America licked at his lower lip. Opened his mouth and oh. 

Oh–

Russia moaned and America could feel it against his chest where their bodies were pressed up together. The reverberation carried across his skin like electricity and America shivered. Russia’s breath and tongue was hot, chasing away the lingering cold from their walk from the park. He still tasted like tea. They parted catching their breath. America watched Russia above him, how his kiss swollen lips looked in the candlelight. Hair mussed from where America’s fingers had traveled. His cheeks were flushed and eyes dark. 

America kissed his jaw, moving down with small kisses down the pale column of his throat. Russia groaned and grabbed his jaw to tilt his face up, dragging him back so he could kiss his lips again. Taste his tongue. America sucked on his bottom lip, letting go with a gentle scrape of his teeth and felt his face flush when Russia said, “You can touch more than my back, you know.”

He blinked, processing the words and said, “Yeah, well you’re welcome to reciprocate the offer there, buddy.”

Russia leaned back and America muttered to himself, sitting up and tossing the couch cushions to the floor. He made more room, pulling Russia over so he was straddling his good leg. “There,” America said. He rubbed his hand along Russia’s arm. “You’re not hurting me. You don’t have to hold yourself up. Use your hands, damnit.”

“Alright,” Russia said and leaned down. Their chests were pressed together, one of Russia’s hands snaking along his waist, under his shirt. “Is this–“

“Ivan,” America said. “I will tell you if something is not okay or if I’m in pain. Now please, for the love of god, _kiss me_.”

“Maybe I should keep you waiting.”

“Russia!”

Russia chuckled and America shook his head. He could feel Russia’s thumb tracing along his hip bone, rubbing a small circle there and he sighed. Russia grabbed on oh America’s hands, placing it on the small of his back, just above his ass. “Keep up,” he teased. 

“You,” America said as he stopped to kiss him. Russia’s tongue trailed along the inside of his mouth. They pulled away wetly and America gasped, “You are an instigator Braginsky, do you know that?”

Russia shrugged. His cool hand slid up the plane of America’s stomach. “I learn from the best.”

“Hm,” America said and gripped the back of Russia’s upper thighs, smiling at the puff of breath he got for that. “Is that so?”

Russia laughed and America smiled. They continued kissing like that, hands trailing over each other and leaning the shape of each others mouth. Russia’s hands mostly stayed under America’s shirt, causing his to shiver at the cool touch. Sometimes he would thread his fingers through his hair, pulling him closer and holding him still when he would let his kisses trail along America’s face. 

America’s hands found a happy home along Russia’s strong legs, kneading at the muscle there and trailing along the seams of his pants, digging his hands into his back pocket and digging his fingers in possessively. “Do you–?” He gasped when Russia kissed the sensitive junction of his neck to his shoulder. “Bed?”

“Bed?” Russia repeated. He blinked. Sat up. America frowned. 

“I mean–“ “I don’t–“ they said at the same time. 

They stared at each other. “I, uh, no.” Russia said finally. “Not yet.”

“Oh,” America said. He made a motion between them with his hand. “This is okay?”

“Yes,” Russia said. His brows were furrowed together, like he wanted to add something but wasn’t voicing it. 

America bit his lip. His hip was starting to hurt from the position on the couch, as was his back from leaning against the armrest. “Can we do this in bed?” He fell silent as Ivan watched him wordlessly. “Just this.”

Russia nodded. “Yes.” He stood up from the couch and America felt cold from the lack of Russia’s body heat. He held out his hand and America took it, allowing Russia to help him up from the couch. They made their way slowly to Russia’s bedroom. It was too dark to see much of what it looked like, but America could tell the bed was slightly bigger that the one he used in the guest room from what little light the moon gave. America sat down and Russia hesitated on the side, pulling the covers down. 

“It is not that I do not want to,” Russia said slowly. 

“It’s okay,” America said. He slipped under the blanket and turned to face Russia as he climbed into the bed as well. The blankets were already staving off the shivers. “You don’t have to tell me why.” He chuckled. “We only just kissed today.”

“I do not want to hurt you,” Russia repeated from earlier. He reached between them and brushed his fingers against America’s jaw. 

America smiled. The warmth of the bed made him realize just how tired he was. “Russia. It’s okay.” He yawned and pulled himself closer to Russia. There was a pause and Russia wrapped his hands around him, holding him close. “We don't have to have sex. There’s nothin’ wrong with just this.” He closed his eyes, sleepily kissing Russia’s shoulder. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

Russia hummed and Alfred opened his eyes, feeling Russia take off his glasses and listened to the quiet tap of them sitting against the bedside table. “I do,” He breathed quietly. America looked up to him. Russia kissed him, arms tight around him. “I do,” he repeated. “America, I do want to. But not tonight. Not yet.”

“Okay,” America said. “Okay.”

They fell asleep soon like that. America fell into a deep dreamless sleep, only waking up once when Russia’s arm was too high on his chest and making it hard to breathe. He lowered his arm, entwining their fingers, and fell back to sleep. 

He woke up to his phone buzzing in his back pocket. America groaned, pulling out the cell and blinked against the morning light. Russia’s Arm still pinned him down to the mattress and America smiled. He realized what a dopey expression must have been on his face, but he didn’t care. 

“Alfred Jones,” he answered quietly. Russia stirred next to him. 

“Good morning Alfred, I hope it’s not too early,” Samantha’s voice came from over the phone. 

Alfred watched Russia next to him. He wanted to card his fingers through his hair. “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“I have great news,” she said. “I just got your final report back from the physical therapist and our doctor here at the embassy you’ve been meeting with. You’re cleared for travel. You can finally go home back to D.C.” 

“Oh,” America said. He looked down at Russia. “That’s great.” It didn’t feel great. He felt cold. 

“I’ll book you a flight for Tuesday, if that’s alright?”

“Tuesday?” America said. That was only three days away.

“Yes, I’m sorry. That’s the soonest I could get a flight.” She said, misunderstanding him. 

“No, That’s fine.” America dragged his hand across his face. “Yeah. Thank you, Samantha. That's great.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow when I have your ticket and make sure you have everything for your trip. Tomorrow at 10?” 

“Sure,” America said and gave a weak smile as Russia turned and kissed his arm. He glanced questioningly at the phone and America shook his head. 

“Okay, I’ll see you then. Goodbye Alfred.”

“Bye,” America muttered and hung up. He looked up when Russia offered him his glasses and took them with a soft ‘thanks’. 

“What was that?” Russia asked, sitting up with a yawn. 

America looked to his hands and the cellphone and said quietly, “They’re sending me home.”


End file.
